


Stewardship

by ImpudentGuttersnipe



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: ...But He's A Hot Dom, Age Play, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Best/Worst Safeword Ever, Bondage, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Play, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Crozier Is a Bad Captain..., Daddy Kink, Fluff and Smut, Franklin's An Idiot, Genderplay, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Kink-Shame, M/M, Nautical Naughtiness, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power Imbalance, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Spanking, Top Drop, absolutely NO platypus!, convenient hypothermia, monotreme mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-05-14 15:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14772476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpudentGuttersnipe/pseuds/ImpudentGuttersnipe
Summary: Sometimes a Captain needs more than the basic necessities from his steward.Sometimes a steward needs to give more than the basic necessities to his Captain.And sometimes even in solid pack ice, you find a two-way street.





	1. Bootblack

**Author's Note:**

> Thus begins my Crozier/Jopson BDSM serial, because somebody has to do the really dirty work on this here boat, and Hickey wasn't available! I'm not sure where this is going, or how far, but we know where it goes in canon, so beware of possible future feels. Not that I plan to leave anyone behind to DIE OR ANYTHING...
> 
>  
> 
> This is my first finished fic in years, so go easy with that cat o' nine. ;)

When Captain Francis Crozier of the HMS Terror first noticed his erection, he was mortified.

  


There had been another seemingly interminable dinner this evening over on his ship’s iced-in sister, HMS Erebus, and he’d had no choice but to trek each way across a mile of wind-scoured ice, heavy layers of outer slops, Welsh wigs, thick comforters, and woollen mittens over dress uniforms making as good as no difference to him or to the rest of his senior staff, as their hands, feet, and faces went numb in the brutal cold. All for a few petty hours of light conversation over bad food, in the company of Sir John Franklin, possibly the greatest fool the Royal Navy had ever seen, and his pretty, boasting lapdog, Commander James Fitzjames. Sir John, being a devout teetotaler, hadn’t even the good grace to serve wine or spirits with dinner to those of his guests who _did_ indulge. And when in the company of  idiots, fops, and their sycophants, Captain Crozier felt a great urge indeed to indulge. Indulge, or speak his mind plainly; either would only end in grief here, so he kept to himself for the most part. 

  


He had trudged back across the groaning prison that was the ice pack, silent and sullen, not  engaging his officers in needless conversation.  And on this night, in Captain Crozier’s mind, all conversation was needless. A meaningful look shared with his old confederate and friend, Ice Master Thomas Blanky, had conveyed that the Captain was to be left to himself, and Blanky,  an old hand at reading his Captain’s moods, had  taken over  talk with the rest of the men for the trip. On reaching his home ship, Crozier had been equally silent and sullen with every man he met, heading straight  aft for the Great Cabin that served as  Wardroom,  Officers’ dining room, and contained his small, but adequate quarters.  He had not a word even for young Thomas Jopson, his  steward, who greeted him with an improbably cheerful smile and equally improbably clear, blue eyes. 

  


“Let’s get you out of these cold, wet things, eh, Captain?” said the lad, already reaching out to strip Crozier of the slops that had nearly frozen themselves around him during the walk back to Terror. He bustled off with the heaps of frigid canvas and wool, and then was back just as Francis had slumped into his favourite chair nearest the tiny coal stove, with a glass of whisky in his extended hand, bless the lad. Crozier tossed it back in two grateful swallows, handed the glass back to his steward, and had it returned immediately, full, without comment. This boy Jopson was damned good at his job, he thought, taking a satisfied sip, as the lad knelt at his feet to tend to his boots.

  


“Here, Sir, let me clean up this soppy mess here, shall I?” Jopson actually smiled, as he reached for his kit of rags, brushes and polish, as if tending Crozier’s boots was a task that brought him some sort of deep pride and pleasure. The Captain simply gave a curt nod, and had another sip of his whisky, allowing it to warm and mellow him from within, wondering if he’d ever been so eager to clean another man’s boots, even his Captain’s, even as a green lad in his 20’s. As he watched how carefully Jopson dried the last drops of meltwater from the leather, then brushed it free of every last speck of dirt, Frances Crozier decided that he most certainly hadn’t. This young man, in his impeccable uniform, glossy black hair falling over his eyes as he began to massage a thick coat of beeswax and turpentine polish into the sturdy leather of Crozier’s boots, was truly built to serve. Every bit of him, from his bright, attentive eyes, quick mind and easy smile, those surprisingly broad shoulders now working back and forth beneath his blazer, down to his strong but clever hands, carefully buffing Crozier’s boots with a soft cloth, seemed custom made as a Captain’s ideal manservant.

  


At that precise moment, Crozier noticed, to his own wretched horror and shame, that at some point during this glass of whisky and train of thought, his long dormant prick had bestirred itself, and was now showing quite a lot of interest in the situation. More interest, in point of fact, than it had shown over anything in a year or more, certainly in anything that wasn’t named Sophia Cracroft – _don’t even think her name, goddamn it!_

  


And just what was Captain Francis Crozier supposed to think of this sudden turn of events, or do about it? He was certain that he could will away the uncomfortable swelling in his rather tightly tailored trousers - thinking of Sir John dancing a polka in the altogether should do the trick nicely – but he was still shocked and disturbed. Just _why_ did his observation of the (admittedly very nicely built, and really rather handsome) young man kneeling before him, polishing his boots with such care and dedication, bring about such a reaction of raw desire? After the debacle with … _her …_ Francis had thought himself finished with such matters of the flesh; a monk in all but faith. And yet here, now, he suddenly found lusts he’d not allowed himself full awareness of, or had forced himself to attempt to forget over decades of mostly frigid Naval service, swarming through his mind, causing him to consider such scandalous acts that he’d have _himself_ keelhauled just for daring to imagine them. 

  


Francis tossed back the remainder of the whisky in his glass, and set it firmly on the table beside him, which turned out to be absolutely the wrong thing to do.

  


Young Thomas Jopson looked up from his task,  to ask the Captain if he wanted another drink, and his eyes caught briefly but unmistakeably on his Captain’s burgeoning humiliation.

  


For the briefest of moments, Francis wished with every fibre of his being that the ice might open under the HMS Terror _right now,_ allow the sea to pull her under in a violent whirlpool, then snap shut above where they had been, leaving no trace of the ship or her shameful Captain. And then he had a moment of clarity, the sort that would come to him on the  quarterdeck of a storm wracked vessel when others were weeping or saying their prayers, and give him the understanding, courage, boldness and will to bring every ship he’d mastered, and every crew sailing under him, through every storm he’d seen thus far to safe harbour. Mastery and control, that was the thing. The Captain’s ship would not be sinking tonight because he could, and would, keep control. And if a favourable wind happened to be blowing, then his course was set to a fine harbour indeed.

  


“Captain? What...” Jopson began, but Crozier cut him off, fixing his own steady,  ice grey  gaze on the young steward’s wide, questioning blue eyes. Surrounded by thick, black lashes, they were pretty enough for any girl to envy.  This time Crozier allowed himself the heavy pulse in his groin. 

  


“Hush, lad.” he said, his voice far softer than his usual hard-edged on-deck brogue, (though he’d tried like the blazes to blunt the Irish from it), and for once not laden with customary annoyance or worry. It was almost conversational, caring, even. Jopson was one of the few on board Terror who had ever heard Crozier speak in a conversational voice, and still never quite this pleasantly.

 

“How long have you been with the Royal  Navy , Thomas Jopson?” he asked, almost carelessly.

 

“Over a dozen years now, Sir.  Since I was but a lad of twelve.” Thomas Jopson smiled a slightly proud, crooked smile up at his Captain now, and Crozier couldn’t help but notice how white his teeth were, and how full his lips. There was that heavy, delicious pulse again.

  


“And how long have you been with the Discovery Service in particular?”

  


Jopson’s smile grew wider.

  


“Why,  you know that I was here on Terror with you,  Sir, when you sailed her to Antarctica with  Sir James Ross’ expedition.  I’d started as ship’s boy, and I … I had hoped to sail again with you, Sir.”

  


“And indeed, here you are, persistent lad.” Crozier half-chuckled. “You’ve worked your way up through the ranks quickly and efficiently. One might be tempted to question how.”

  


“Sir?” Still kneeling before his Captain, Jopson’s straight black brows furrowed in confusion.

  


“Tell me Jopson, did you have the assistance, or the patronage of any of the older officers when you were a boy? Did you have a protector? Someone you might have provided… favours for? You’re certainly a handsome enough young man now, I’m sure you were not overlooked when you were younger. And I know well enough that you are neither blind, deaf nor an idiot; you must be perfectly aware of the goings-on below decks, particularly on long voyages, and particularly where pretty boys are concerned...”

  


As Crozier continued his monologue, a flush began at Jopson’s collar, and climbed steadily up his neck, cheeks, and brow until the tips of his ears glowed scarlet.

  


“ Are you asking me, Sir, whether I allowed certain officers the… use… of my body in exchange for advancement!” 

  


“Not at all!” He held up his hands in a gesture of supplication and comfort, a few bare inches from Jopson’s lovely, flushed, angry face. “I was rather ensuring that you had never been harmed nor taken advantage of, as I’ve been made aware that a certain member of our crew on this voyage has been attempting to do with the younger lads.”

  


“That rat bastard Hickey,” growled Jopson.

  


“Aye,” agreed Crozier. “I know,  an’ he’s being seen to, believe you me. But you’re also aware, I’m sure, of the other sorts of goings-on. The sorts that happen on every  ship , regulations be damned, because men will do what they’ll do, whether there are women around to  do it for them or not, because men get lonely, and their cocks get hard, and most won’t resort to  outright buggery, but what does it matter if you help a mate toss one off, am I right?” 

  


Jopson was breathing faster now, and his flush no longer appeared to be one of anger. Crozier couldn’t help but notice that his own trousers were not the only ones in this cabin beginning to bulge in an ungentlemanly manner. Jopson nodded weakly, his eyes still pinned to the Captain’s.

  


“Indeed,” Crozier continued, “I recall that the lads in my day thought nothing of what they called the “salty kiss”, or a “gamahuche” between close mates,  if there was nobody around to catch you. And on cold trips like this, sometimes we’d even sleep two to a hammock just to stay warm, and well, then...” He trailed off with a chuckle. “I’m sure you’re no stranger to that sort of boyish activity, are you, lad?”

  


Jopson was oddly breathless when he answered, and sounded much younger than his twenty five years.

  


“No Sir. I mean, yes Sir, I am familiar with such activities.”

  


“Just as I thought you would be. And I am glad for that, Jopson. I’m very glad that you’ve had your pleasure with your mates, as a boy should do  when he’s stuck at sea without the chance of a proper sweetheart , and not been used by wicked officers, who would order you to do their bidding in more than just the regular necessities.” Crozier leaned forward, so his lips grazed Jopson’s ear, and was flooded with satisfaction when he saw and felt the steward’s body caught in a helpless  shiver. “ Who would, for example, see you on your knees after  cleaning his boots, and then order licentious and depraved acts on a boy who was unable to refuse.” 

  


“That would be most shocking and unpleasant, Sir.” Jopson’s voice was no more than a whisper. Crozier leaned back comfortably in his chair, legs spread wide to more comfortably accommodate the persistent swelling between them, then gazed lazily down over Jopson again as he knelt at his feet, girlishly blushing and aquiver, almost too pretty for his own good, or that of anyone in close proximity.

  


“Were I one of those wicked, cruel Captains, Jopson, I might have further orders for you now, in fact. I might order you to disrobe, right here in front of me.”

  


Jopson’s breath caught in his throat.

  


“ Sir?” This was barely a breath, floating around  the beginning of a slow, knowing smile, as he raised his eyes, pupils blown wide with raw lust, back to the Captain’s. Crozier smiled back, slow and hungry, and began to speak again. 

  


“Yes, Jopson, A crueller Captain than I would give that order. Now, if you will start with your stock, please. Consider this to be an inspection of sorts. Disrobe.”

  


Though Jopson’s hands flew to the knot of silk at his throat, his usually nimble fingers  might as well have been frozen by the words  rather than the more usual Arctic winds , as they fumbled and clawed in his attempt to untie his perfect diamond knot. When it finally came loose, he carelessly tugged it free, and let it fall to the floor.  Crozier raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh aloud at his  usually fastidious steward’s impatience.

  


“ Give that to me. Then remove that jacket and waistcoat. Neatly.”

  


Jopson’s gently trembling hand placed the long strip of stiff silk into Crozier’s, and the Captain made sure to close his hand just tightly enough to  drag his fingers over his steward’s longer, thinner, ones, savouring their shape through a thin barrier of silk. Jopson’s gasp at the contact was the sweetest music Crozier had heard in years, he was sure, and the sight of a bared throat working in the space of a now open collar was lovelier than any sculpture brought to life.  Crozier sat back again, and allowed himself to enjoy the view of this beautiful young man before him, usually so quick and deft, nearly tripping over his own fingers as he worked the buttons of his own jacket, then waistcoat, and folded them in neat,  but  hurried squares on the floor beside where he knelt. Crozier had a momentary pang of doubt; was he truly reading this lovely boy’s signs of nervy eagerness correctly, or was he  in the midst of making a terrible mistake? 

  


“You know,” he began, “that you are not truly under orders here, do you not? That I play a game  now , rather than  give  true commands?”

  


Jopson’s hand was already resting at the top buttons of his shirt; had his intentions not already been clear, he spoke.

  


“On the contrary, Captain, tonight I am making an especial note of your orders. Your command is my every wish, Sir.”

  


Well, _that_ settled it.

  


“Then strip off the rest, Jopson, quickly and tidily,  and back on your knees. It’s a sight I’ve rather come to enjoy.” 

  


Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier, you are a terribly bad man, and an even worse Captain, whispered a voice in the back of his mind, but it was quickly overruled and  overpowered by every other thought, sense and instinct in his entire being, so as Jopson  blundered his way down the buttons of his shirt - telegraphing impatience by the one tiny shell button sent zinging off into a dark corner – Crozier stretched out his legs, then strolled over to the cut glass whisky decanter and poured himself another glass. Jopson glanced over his shoulder worriedly.

  


“I could have done that for you, Sir!” Crozier simply shook his head, and took a small sip of his drink, eyeing the well muscled back and shoulder being revealed as Jopson paused in removing his shirt.

  


“I assure you, your current occupation is far more necessary at the moment, lad. I can still fetch my own drink.” He chuckled softly again as he returned to his seat, making no effort to hide how his eyes roamed over the newly revealed flesh. It was so very unfair, he reflected, that this gorgeous young thing had to tend to his ageing body each day, while leaving his own slim but sculpted physique covered by layers of linen and wool, only hinting at the beauty beneath. His smooth skin was gilded by the lamplight, which threw each shadow into sharp relief, emphasizing the glide of firm young muscles as he first clumsily folded his shirt, then looked down, almost abashed by his own eagerness, it seemed, and went to work, following the dark trail of hair down from his sternum and flat, olive coloured nipples, and began on the buttons of his trousers. And oh, the glories revealed within! If Crozier had ever doubted Jopson’s own enthusiastic part in this game, that was put to paid when he took down both his trousers and drawers at once, rolling his head back with pleasure at the friction, or perhaps at simply no longer being so tightly constrained. His cock was indeed a thing of beauty, jutting proudly from dark curls to a truly impressive size (though Francis’ own endowment was certainly nothing to sneeze at!), topped by a purple-red head, its skin stretched taut and shining in the lamplight, already dripping copiously. After drinking in the sight for a moment, and having another sip of his whisky, Crozier smiled his most benign smile. 

  


“Have we forgotten something, Thomas?” He was rewarded with a confused and slightly glazed look up from his now mostly nude steward. 

  


“Boots.”

  


At that single word, Jopson attempted to scramble back, and fell onto his rather fine bottom, revealing both a pair of singularly well formed thighs, and that his calves and ankles were hopelessly tangled in a knot of woollen trousers, with both linen and woollen long drawers layered warmly underneath them, all tucked firmly into boots that came nearly to his knees. It was an adorable sight, but Francis lacked the patience to sort that mess out, and Jopson’s immobility actually quite appealed to him, now that he considered it. 

  


“As you were. Back to your knees.” Crozier let a bit of his on-deck manner slip into this command, and finally allowed his mind to put words to the deep pressure and heat that had been gathering in his belly and nether-parts for some time now. Oh, how he wanted this beautiful boy! He wanted to shove him bodily to the deck, to fuck him in every way possible, and then perhaps to invent a few new ways for a man of a certain age to defile a man of half his years. But he _would_ keep control this evening, and any evening that might follow. He was torn rudely from his thoughts by a soft moan; his eyes whipped forward to see that one of Jopson’s hands had strayed to his cock and was gently stroking it  like a beloved pet, which Crozier was wryly certain that it was.

  


“Belay that, Mr. Jopson!”  This was spoken in a full Captain’s voice, and it had the desired effect. Jopson’s eyes slammed open, and his hand sprang out to the side of his body, as if burned by Crozier’s voice, or perhaps by the magnificent organ he’d been illicitly handling.

  


“Were you given orders to touch yourself, Mr. Jopson?” Crozier asked roughly.

  


“No Sir.” His voice  trembled with the  perfect vibrato  of fear and desire, and his  huge eyes appeared almost to have tears in them. 

  


“Yes, well, if a lad can’t control his own hands, they’ll have to be controlled for him.” Crozier’s voice was gruff, as he strolled around behind  the lovely kneeling form, disguising his secret smile, and that he was slowly removing Jopson’s own silk stock from his pocket. 

  


“Hands behind your back, lad.”

  


The lad quickly complied, and Crozier gripped both  slim wrists in one big hand, roughened by years in the harshest of elements. He swiftly crossed Jopson’s wrists  one over the other, then wrapped the long strip of silk around them twice, with a snug cinch loop between, and tied it all off to the nearest table leg in a  quick, strong bowline hitch well out of the naughty lad's reach. Crozier’s  composure slipped briefly when Jopson pulled at his bonds and whimpered softly, and he suddenly needed to have  _some_ part of the boy,  to the Devil with care and control. And like he’d not even moved, but by thinking made it so, one of his hands was cupping the back of his willing prisoner’s head, fingers curling tightly into that shining dark hair, and his mouth was plundering the lad’s mouth, kissing him as he’d not kissed a grown man before (and really, apart from the faint scratching of whiskers, why not?), pressing the kiss deep and hard on his  cherished captive, who was now moaning into his mouth, leaning in to give more, even as it was taken, suckling and caressing the Captain’s tongue with his own, then drawing hard, as if he meant to swallow it. And after a few melting moments of that delirious give and take, Crozier knew just what it was that he needed, and pulled back, partly by his own movement, and partly by  the grasp he still had on Jopson’s hair. 

 

He hooked his chair with a leg and dragged it closer, took a deep drink of the whisky on the table, and stared in wonder for a moment at Jopson’s face,  cheeks deep pink, eyes full of need, lips red and even fuller than usual. Sinking down, legs spread wide, Crozier began working his own trouser buttons now.

  


“I was gonna have you do this with your teeth,” he growled, “But with the state you’re in, I’d just be making you more work in sewing them all back – ah fuck!”, as a button of his own flew free and sped across the cabin floor. “Well, you’ll have some sewing to do for both of us, lad”,  he laughed, and then his trousers were open, and Jopson was leaning forward, in no need of further instruction as he took the head of the Captain’s hard cock into his mouth. 

  


Crozier groaned, a man on the knife’s edge of agony and ecstacy, as Jopson tongued his way around the head, then leaned further forward, taking the Captain’s full, not inconsiderable girth in his mouth, and slowly worked his way down, then up again, then further down, until his throat was full and tightly curled hair was tickling his nose.  Crozier groaned again, taking another fistful of Jopson’s  pretty hair, and paused in the middle of an involuntary buck of his hips, so as not to gag or choke the beauty swallowing his prick. The very idea, though, excited him all the more, and this time he slowed, but didn’t still his movements. He knew he should be more considerate, but ye Gods, those whimpering, gurgling, coughing sounds that Jopson made as he fucked his throat were so damned arousing… He was a weak man. He couldn’t stop himself, he could hardly slow his movements or loosen his grip on the lovely boy, he could hardly force out his own nearly choked off voice,

  


“ I’m coming now, Jesus buggering Christ, I’m Ahhhhhh...”

  


As soon as the sensation of having been hit by a freight train made of pure, unadulterated pleasure abated enough to allow movement, Crozier slipped back a bit, and looked down, hoping like hell to see that his steward was still breathing and hadn’t been accidentally drowned, strangled, or any such thing.

  


Jopson was indeed  still alive, breathing hard,  his hair in tangles and his face both glowing and, well, dripping, and almost unbelievably to Francis, his cock as hard as ever, looking  to be  on the verge of eruption. He shook his head in wonder, took another large mouthful of whisky, then before swallowing, slipped to his knees before his beautiful boy,  took his face between calloused hands, and kissed him hard again, opening both their mouths to share the combined flavour of liquor heat, and the bitter-salt  that was dripping from Jopson’s chin. As they kissed, Crozier reached a hand down, and wrapped it around what was possibly the hardest cock he’d encountered  since his own misspent youth , and began to gently stroke. Jopson’s moaning, panting, and whimpering tasted better than any liquor man had yet made, and Crozier swallowed every bit of it, especially as the sounds being  poured down his throat became more urgent, verging on desperate, and Jopson’s entire strong body went stiff in his arms as his own pleasure pulsed out over his Captain’s hand. 

  


This time Crozier broke the kiss slowly, gently, to see a look near to awe on his young steward’s face.

  


“Sir... I... thank you, Sir!... I mean to say...” Crozier stopped him with another gentle kiss, then ducked behind Jopson.

  


“Hush, lad. Have a bit of a rest for a moment.” His voice was gentle again as well, as he untied Jopson’s hands from the table leg, then used the strip of silk binding to wipe the mess from his own despoiled hand.

  


The Captain sat down on the deck next to his steward, and wrapped a warm, protective arm about his shoulders.

  


“You’re feeling well?” he asked, as naturally as if they’d just met in the corridor. The reply was a breathless laugh.

  


“Oh God, Sir, I don’t know that I’ve ever felt better!”

  


“Good. Let me know when you can stand again, and then you best get dressed – it’s a bastard of a cold night, and I can’t have you  coming down ill. Then I’ll need you to find us a wash basin for the obvious, and a couple of extra lanterns – I’ve some buttons that need mending, but first we’ll have to find them in here!”

  


They both laughed so hard at this that Billy Gibson knocked on the door to see if anything was wrong.


	2. Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unplanned evening of exitement has unexpected fallout for both Crozier and Jopson. We'd call it the morning-after blues, but it's still too dark to tell if it's actually morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd intended this to be 100% smut, 100% of the time, but then Francis had to go and be, well... Francis. Don't you hate it when characters have minds of their own, and you need to take the time to get their heads together by using blatant tropes and clichees so they can get back to the important work of making pornography happen?

Thomas Jopson awoke early in the unending winter darkness of his tiny cabin, and ran the events of the previous evening through his mind over and again. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell any details of his regular evening services to the Captain, though a giddy hunt for escaped buttons across the deck of the Great Cabin had been a part of it, nor could he precisely recall finding his way here, out of his boots, into his nightshirt, or into his own bunk. He knew that he’d been asleep near immediately, and that his sleep had been deep, and full of fantastical, erotic dreams. He vaguely recalled dreaming of being bound to the mainmast, starkers, hands stretched helplessly above his head, up amidst the rigging, while a wind that was by turns searing and icy caressed his body in long strokes, while the crew worked on below him, oblivious, except when one would pause on his way up to trim the topsail, or down from the lookout post, to add his own hands or mouth to the wind’s work. 

And he knew what had passed between the Captain and himself. He remembered each word, every touch of blunt, calloused fingers, gentle or rough, to his own body; he remembered the smells and tastes of his Captain’s mouth, skin, cock, and spendings, the combination of salt, musk, sweat, and whisky. Alone in his bunk, he pressed his wrists to each other, and could still feel the silk binding them, almost believed that if he tried to part them he would be unable. He heaved in a great, shuddering breath, aware of just how brutally hard his member was, but he made no move to touch it. The Captain wouldn’t approve of his self-pleasuring, and Thomas Jopson existed to please his Captain. He was the happiest man aboard the HMS Terror. 

_______________

 

On the other side of a thin partition wall, Captain Francis Crozier lay in his bunk, awake either very early or very late, depending on one’s opinion, a study in abject misery. He was a failure as a Captain. He was a failure as a man. The night before had been the best of his entire life, and now he must ensure that nothing remotely like it ever happened again. An impulsive decision, at least partly born of those twin evils, irritation and frustration, had undone him completely. How could he have indulged himself in his scandalous fancies, even once? How could he have thought that, just because young Jopson was not only willing, but practically throwing himself at Francis’ cock, it could ever be in any way acceptable to play out even this mildest of the desires he’d kept locked away for most of his adult life? He’d done such shameful things, unspeakable things, even to kiss another man was beyond the pale! Let alone everything else that he’d pressed upon the boy… How could he ever have believed that just once might sate him? 

Oh, so what if the lad had seemed to enjoy it all the while? So what if the lad had spent three times before the night was out? (Once while tied to the table, and how glorious that had been! Once while attempting to clean that mess with a marginally less than freezing damp cloth, and one last time in a tangled fumble of hands and lips on the deck, in the corner of the Great Cabin, while scrambling around after wayward buttons…) For a Captain to take advantage of a subordinate in such an abhorrent manner! Were they not stuck fast, frozen into the ice pack, Captain Francis Crozier would gladly have thrown himself overboard now, in the harsh light of day, were there any daylight to speak of in this godforsaken frozen Hades. The only thing that stopped him from taking his pistol from his greatcoat pocket and ending himself that way was the sudden, horrifying realisation that, were he to die, James Fitzjames would become both Second in Command of this Expedition, and would take his place as Captain on the HMS Terror. 

Bugger that! 

Francis Crozier may have spent much of his life so thoroughly denying and subduing his desires regarding pretty younger men that even he sometimes forgot them (unless sorely tempted, damn your eyes, Thomas Jopson!), but James Fitzjames was one pretty thing who was most definitely not going to get anywhere near Francis, or his ship! Although Fitzjames might fit well into certain considerations he’d had involving particularly handsome, well built lads and strict corporal punishment; he’d see how well the lisping poodle liked the cat… 

Fuck!

He had tried, he truly had. And he’d thought that his infatuation with Sophia Cracroft might have held the solution to his troubles; a lovely young wife with a mind that could fathom interests more weighty than household management, or this year’s dresses, or whatever else it was that most wives seemed to spend all their time chattering away with other wives about. He’d had hardly a glance for any young gent, no matter how tight his trousers, while in conversation with her, and as for that picnic involving a certain monotreme which he would never again mention…

Well. 

That had possibly been the second most pleasurable experience of his adult life. And it had led to the greatest disappointment, thus far. In Francis Crozier’s experience, pleasure and disappointment were inextricably linked. The only pleasure he had found upon which he could invariably rely was that of good Irish whisky, or less good, but in greater quantities. And even that steadfast comfort always brought with it a price to be paid the next day. But surely no hangover, no splintered head and queasy belly had ever been half the agony that he suffered now. He scrubbed his hands over his face, as if to cleanse it of the indelible marks of his weakness and degradation that were doubtless present for all to see, or at least to be seen once he gathered the will to actually leave his quarters. 

His will was quickly and forcibly gathered by the sounds of movement in the next cabin. Bleeding Christ! That would be young Jopson washing and dressing (and how dare you so enjoy that ravishing, revolting image in your mind, you lecherous old…) in order to come and assist him with his own ablutions, dressing, and breakfast. To even be alone in the same room as the man would be an absolute impossibility today, perhaps for the rest of the voyage. Never mind the prospect of allowing Jopson to bathe or dress him ever again! Idly wondering if that boasting dandy Fitzjames might be too terribly opposed to a trade of personal stewards, Crozier hurriedly lit a lamp, then dressed himself in the tiny space with extra warming underclothes and as little fumbling and knocking of elbows and knees into cabinets and the washstand as was humanly possible. He broke through the thin scrim of ice on the basin’s surface, then glanced in the mirror to approximate a smoothing down of his hair, which still was thicker and less grey than it had any right to be. His hairline may have receded a bit in age’s slow tide, but there was still enough gold mixed in with the silver, and anyway, Francis Crozier had never been a vain man. He considered himself blessed in that sense; logic would dictate that one would have to be handsome to start with in order to be cursed with vanity, and so that temptation at least was out of his reach. He wondered briefly if young Jopson liked mirrors, if he knew how extraordinary his eyes were, if he took excessive care with that sleek, dark hair… 

Sweet Flaming Mother of God!

Fresh air, that was what he needed. It was too close in here, never mind how far below zero the mercury may have dropped above deck. Crozier hastily pulled on his boots, shuddering at their smooth, mellow shine, and the pair of small whitish specks just off centre of the left toe, reminding him of just how low he had fallen. Then he threw on his greatcoat and cap, tossed a comforter around the lower part of his face, snatched up both gloves and mittens, then paused and turned back at his cabin door. In the back of the cabinet below his miniscule, but comfortable enough bunk, was his emergency store of whisky. He grasped a bottle sight unseen, slipped it into a pocket, and then turned back to the door. Now he was prepared to face the world. 

What he was not prepared for was to come face to beaming face with Thomas Jopson the moment he slid open the door to the Great Cabin to take his, hopefully surreptitious, leave. 

“Captain! I was just coming to dress you and… Is there some emergency of which I am unaware?” The young man was practically vibrating with eager usefulness, and his smile took up half his face. Dear Christ, could this farce get any worse? 

“No need, Jopson, and no emergency. Just taking a walk above deck, checking how things are getting on up there. Making sure the lads aren’t getting slack toward the end of their watch.” Crozier answered gruffly, more into his comforter than to his steward. 

“Are you sure you don’t want anything warmer to wear, or a bite to eat first?” asked the steward, his solicitous hand burning a slow hole through the sleeve of the Captain’s greatcoat. 

“There’s really no need, Jopson. I’ll not be up there long. And perhaps I’ll grab a biscuit or somesuch as I pass by Mr. Diggle’s stove.” Crozier was already moving down the passage, his arm stretching behind him to where Jopson still held fast like an affectionate cephalopod. “Now if you’ll be so good?” Crozier shot a rather pointed glance at his captive arm. Jopson dropped it, with more than a bit of the bewildered air of a hurt puppy. 

“Yes, Sir. Whatever you wish, Sir.” 

He stood, forlorn, in the passage outside the Great Cabin for some time after the Captain had bustled off, wondering what on Earth had become of the man he had known so very intimately the previous night. Then he heaved a great sigh, opened up the doors, and began lighting lamps for his daily chores. The cabin would not clean itself, and though the collection of officers who would be in and out all day were not always the tidiest men born of the Empire, they expected naught less than perfection from their immediate surroundings, as provided by their serving class. Jopson did not resent this in the least, and indeed took deep pride in a job well done. Still, he would have preferred the Captain’s presence on this of all mornings, and his abrupt departure was a matter of some concern, which Jopson was entirely unable to comprehend. 

As he tidied, polished, and eavesdropped, while Gibson and Genge served the other officers their breakfast at the long table (except for Thomas Blanky, who had been on watch, and Dr. Peddie, who was attending to certain matters in sick bay, and would eat later), where Captain Crozier would usually sit at the head and discuss the day’s matters of importance with his men, Jopson began to worry. Certainly, the officers all knew that their Captain was fond of drink and did not take breakfast with them every single morning, but his absence was still noted, and when Lieutenant Irving asked Jopson if he knew where the Captain was, and he was compelled to confess that he’d not seen him since he went to check the previous watch over an hour ago, he realised that he was actually becoming alarmed. Though he trusted Captain Crozier and his judgement implicitly and with his life, Thomas Jopson also knew that the deck of an ice bound ship in this land of freezing cold and driving winds was not the safest place in the world, and that the ship’s surgeons were often treating men for all manner of cold-related mishaps. He hoped that the Captain had not taken a fall, or suffered any injury. Or that…

Oh dear God. Was he, himself the cause of this absence? Though he had been certain that the previous night had been an experience of unparalleled delight, had he, in his naïvety and ignorance, said or done something to offend? Had he proven a dull, lacklustre, or less than fully pleasing lover? Had the Captain got what he wanted of him, and decided that he wanted no more? Jopson’s concern-turned-alarm turned to downright fretting as he cleaned the table from breakfast, trying to calm his mind by wiping spills, polishing the mahogany until it showed his worried face like a dark mirror, and then going to his knees with a large scrubbing brush and a bucket of cold, but still somewhat soapy water to start on the deck. Though he could just use a mop, this was a more satisfyingly thorough method. He scrubbed away industriously, until he reached the heavy, carved table leg that he had been bound to the night before. Then his stomach gave a great lurch, and he found himself nearly in tears. Had it all just been another of his mad dreams? No, this spattering of small, dry, ivory coloured spots on the floor was proof positive that everything he remembered had indeed transpired here. He glanced around furtively, saw that he was alone, then put out his tongue, and touched one of the spots with just the tip. It tasted of the sea. Then he squeezed his eyes shut as they flooded with tears, and began to wash away the evidence that anything had ever occurred there, just as he was sure that the Captain would wish. 

A sudden flurry of voices and steps in the passage, and the sliding door being slammed back on its rail startled Jopson out of his miserable reverie, and he sat up so quickly that he fetched his head a stunning blow on the underside of the table. Into the Great Cabin swarmed Dr. Peddie, Lieutenant Irving, and Mr. Blanky, with the Captain propped between them, crusted in snow and barely conscious. Billy Gibson bustled in a few steps behind, arms full of blankets, and shoved the door closed with a long, clumsy foot.

“What…?” he began, head still swimming, as he stumbled to his feet, and was cut off briskly by Dr. Peddie.

“Ah! Mr. Jopson! Just the man we need. Quickly, help us get the Captain into the chair by the stove, get him out of these cold, wet things, then use as much coal as you have here, and get that damned thing as hot as possible!” A distracted handwave seemed to indicate the stove. “Gibson, leave those blankets on the Captain’s bunk, then go fetch more lamps, and a full jug of hot tea – a nice heavy jug with a lid, not a fancy China pot that will go cold in half a minute! Well, Jopson? Hurry, man!”

With a brief shake of his aching and bewildered head, Jopson scrambled over to lend his support to some of the Captain’s cold and solid weight. He was alarmed to notice that very little, if any of this weight was being taken by the man’s own feet; it seemed that he, Irving and Blanky were doing most of the work here, while Dr. Peddie fluttered about them, snapping out worried directions and orders. The three managed to get Crozier manoeuvred to his favourite chair, where he lay slumped, sporadically convulsing in violent shivers, his usually somewhat ruddy face disturbingly white and immobile. 

“Well? Get this frozen coat and boots off the man!” came Peddie’s next rapid-fire order. “Can’t you see he’s half dead of the cold?”

Jopson felt another shock like to the one he’d so recently had delivered to his head by the underside of the table. What in God’s name had happened out there? He rushed into action, first swiftly but gently tugging the frigid boots, and then sodden socks from bluish feet that felt almost like carven blocks of ice themselves, noting that the left ankle was already turning a variety of red to purple shades, and was near double the thickness of the right. 

“Doctor?” He inclined his head toward the apparent injury, then began to unbutton the greatcoat, which seemed to have nearly frozen stiff onto the Captain’s body. Irving and Blanky had each removed a glove, and were attempting to chafe some warmth into one hand each. As Jopson peeled open the coat, he was alarmed to see large shards of glass, tipped in blood, rending through the torn and sopping lining of the inner pocket region. 

“Oh God, he’s cut up badly, look, this is soaked!” 

Before the alarmed doctor could intervene, however, Mr. Blanky, Captain Crozier’s oldest friend on board, if he could indeed be said to have friends, had interposed himself between them, dipping his face down to what was likely a grievous wound, and seemed to be sniffing it carefully.

“Nah,” he declared after a moment. “That ain’t blood. Or at least not near half of it. Don’t worry, lad.” He clapped Jopson’s shoulder with a fearsomely strong hand. “What I reckon happened here is that our esteemed Captain went for a stroll and a tipple on deck in the early morning dark, and I’ll be fucked if I know why, but he had a bit of a fall, looks like he turned his ankle on something like a green lubber or a common souse, an’ he fell on the whisky bottle he was carryin’ in his pocket. Reckon he’ll need a stitch or three, but that coat smells of liquor, lads, not blood. He’ll live, as long as we can warm him up, and right fast.”

Jopson took that as cue to begin emptying the coal scuttle into the stove, while Lieutenant Irving turned the same shade of red and nearly as incandescent as the already burning coals. He waved a finger in Blanky’s impassive face.

“This is our Captain you speak of with such disrespect, and I’ll not hear...”

“Aye, he is, lad, and we’ve been sailing together and drinking together all over God’s blue Earth since before you were even on it. If he gives a fuck about what I say, I’ll say it to his face when he’s awake, and he can fucking flog me himself if there’s a problem!” Though Blanky was not as tall as Irving, his ire made a far more imposing figure of him. “Now lend us a hand here, or be off with you!” Irving’s mouth hung open a moment, then snapped shut, as Gibson re-entered the room, three lanterns in one arm, and a well wrapped stoneware jug in the other.

“Ah, good! Take those into the Captain’s bunk room as well, Gibson, and light them all, then off to Sick Bay with you – bring me my suture kit, iodine, salve for frostbite, and plenty of bandages. Oh, and stop in Jopson’s cabin and bring one of his nightshirts!” The doctor barely looked up from where he was eyeing the deep, but not mortal, cuts in the Captain’s side, revealed by simply enlarging the tears in his uniform with his omnipresent surgical scalpel. Gibson simply nodded, and hurried on his way. 

“Dr. Peddie? Sir? My nightshirt?” asked Jopson, possibly more confused than he had been all morning. 

“Alright, men, if you could move the Captain to his bunk, gently and carefully please! Out of the way, Gibson!” As Jopson, Irving, and Blanky cautiously took hold of Crozier’s body, which was alternating between bouts of violent shivers, and laying distressingly limp, making their utmost attempts to avoid further injury to his person, Dr. Peddie continued.

“Yes, Jopson, your nightshirt, unless you prefer to be tucked up with the Captain in the altogether!”

“Tucked up?!?” Jopson could feel another of his fierce blushes coming on, just as he had blushed the previous night, at the Captain’s lewd suggestions. He was less aroused than embarrassed now, though. 

“Well how else do you warm a frozen man back to life, if not by sharing the body heat of a man who’s warm and hale, with as few layers between the two as possible? Right, men, onto the bunk with him, and clear out, all of you but Jopson. I’ll leave you alone here a moment so you can get him into his nightshirt with some bit of privacy, then pile those blankets on the man until Gibson’s back.” With that, Dr. Peddie backed out of the tiny room, sliding the door shut behind him, which Jopson thought was a bit ridiculous. The man was a doctor, for God’s sake, had he not seen unclothed men enough in his life to be untroubled by them? Then again, it was a kind gesture of respect for the Captain’s rank, and a bit of a rare opportunity for his adoring, if troubled, steward. 

He went briskly to work unbuttoning and removing each article of clothing from the disconcertingly inert form before him, passing each racking fit of shivering by wrapping his warm arms tightly around the Captain’s uninjured upper body until he was still again. Never before had Jopson had the chance to truly look his fill on the body that he was servant to, so while still making an efficient change from the torn and bloodied uniform into a clean nightshirt, with a handkerchief underneath pressed against the narrow, but deep slashes below the ribcage, Jopson greedily took in every detail as he would never have been brazen enough to stare at openly, were his master awake. And he was quite taken by everything there was to see. Unlike so many men his age, Francis Crozier had neither run to fat, nor wasted much youthful muscle; his legs were well shaped and firm, his belly only gone a bit round, more from drink than from rich eating, his chest, shoulders, and arms still strong and manful. His skin was softer than Jopson would have expected, but then he really only knew the touch of his hands, which had been roughened by work and weather, as had his face. As for his cock, well, they’d been well acquainted the previous evening, and Jopson found the sight of it soft and dormant to be both arousing, and rather handsome on its own. Not overly long, but thick and plump, it suited the man, laying pillowed on ample endowments behind, and nested in hair the same shade of blond running to silver, as the surprisingly soft hair dusted over the rest of his body. The overall impression Jopson gathered from the Captain’s physical form was that of a man grown stronger, rather than weak, as he entered middle age, one who was not showy, but formidable in his own understated yet forthright manner. And really, this was a truly inconvenient time to find oneself becoming aroused by such impressions and observations.  
As if to underscore that thought, he heard the door of the Great Cabin rattle open again, and some indistinct words pass between Gibson and Dr. Peddie, who then called, 

“Jopson? Have you got the Captain changed?”

“Yes Sir!” he called back out, bending busily over the narrow bunk and piling blankets over the still fiercely shaking form laying in it, in an attempt to hide the indefensible bulge in his trousers, at least for another few seconds. He closed his eyes for a moment, as Dr. Peddie bustled in, and attempted to imagine their great leader, Sir John, completely starkers, doing something utterly ridiculous – dancing a jig for the Queen, perhaps. Ahh. Good. His trousers felt more comfortable already. 

“Good lad,” said the doctor, laying an armload of supplies on the tiny writing table where usually the ship’s log held pride of place. “There’s a nightshirt warming on the stove for you out there. Go and change, then come right back in here where you’re needed.”

“Yes Sir.” Jopson did as ordered, wondering at the bizarre happenstance that was landing him directly in the Captain’s bed, and today of all days. Gibson was sitting across the table, and eyed Jopson coolly as he snatched up the nightshirt, and began to unbutton his own clothes. 

“So, bunking with the Captain now, Jopson?” asked Gibson, a rather slender and almost fey young man, with a mop of curls and a half-twist of a smile. “I hope you end up with a promotion for today’s work.”

“Listen to me bloody well laughing, Gibson.” was the somewhat muffled response from inside a lightly singed, but clean flannel nightshirt. “You’re a steward as well as I, you know the job. The officers say do it, and we ask no questions.” He pulled his head out, then began to remove his trousers from beneath the nightshirt’s length. “Captain Crozier’s a decent and honourable man. Half frozen, too. I’m sure my virtue is safe here.” Jopson dropped a wink for effect, and both men laughed. 

“Better your arse than mine,” Gibson replied. “Speaking of which, Doctor will have my arse on a platter if I’m not back here a moment ago with a basin of hot water on the stove. Well, back to work for us, or rather, off to work on your back for you!” 

“That’s wit for the ages, mate,” was all Jopson said as Gibson left again, and he pulled off his boots and drawers, drew a deep breath, and re-entered the Captain’s cabin. Dr. Peddie had drawn up the side of the blankets and the Captain’s nightshirt just around where the broken bottle had gouged his flesh, and had removed the bloodstained handkerchief. 

“Jopson, good, you will be of vital help here! First, I need you to carefully climb over the Captain, and squeeze yourself in under the blankets between the wall and his body. Then you must do your best to hold him still. This shivering is a good sign - I’d be more concerned had it stopped, but it will make it a damned sight more difficult to stitch and bandage where necessary without the help of a strong young thing like you to help still the poor man. And of course, your warmth will help him immensely. Yes, good and close like that. It may feel awkward, but you do us all a great service here!”

If only the poor man knew just what difficulties Jopson was suffering not to burst into a great grin of satisfaction, just at the feeling of the Captain’s entire body pressed full length to his own, and his being not only permitted, but encouraged to hold the man he had so admired for such a very long time in his arms, as a proper lover might! He silently cursed the hovering doctor and his ministrations for being in the way of allowing him to warm the Captain’s face as well, with as many tender kisses as his lips could offer, and then perhaps gently awaken him with lips somewhere much more intimate…

At least beneath this heavy pile of blankets, wrapping his body protectively around the Captain’s, ostensibly to allow for as much transfer of heat as possible, neither the doctor nor anyone else could possibly see how incredibly hard Jopson had become again. It was, however, becoming more and more difficult to hold himself decorously still with each bout of the Captain’s violent shudders jolting his more and more sensitive prick. Mainly to distract himself from his ever growing discomfort, Jopson asked the doctor, who was currently at the foot of the bed, doing something extremely complicated involving a few miles of gauze,

“Sir, is there a reason that we’re here, rather than in Sick Bay? Is it not warmer there, with more room?” Dr. Peddie answered without even looking up from his work, which appeared to consist of mummifying each of the Captain’s frostbitten toes individually under a thick coating of salve, and a thicker layer of gauze bandage. 

“Indeed, there is a very good reason! Consider why the Captain does not bunk with the rest of the men, and has a steward all to himself! Such privacy and distance helps build respect in the eyes of the crew. It simply wouldn’t do to treat him in Sick Bay where any man could walk in and see him in this poor state, being bandaged for frostbite and an ankle sprain, being stitched where he fell upon his whisky bottle, and above all other indignity, being warmed by sharing a bed with his own steward, even if the cause is medicinal, and the action is being done with all propriety! There would be talk, and talk of that sort is most injurious to the morale of the crew. That is why I am so glad to have found you right here to assist, Jopson. You understand the meaning of discretion, and will not go about telling tales of what has passed this morning.”

“No Sir, no man will hear from me any more than the Captain wishes to be known.” Jopson would have bet the entire ship herself that Captain Crozier would not wish for him to share a single word of their activities, innocent or not, with any man, living or dead. 

“And that is precisely why you are of such value here. Now find me a hand so that I may treat any frostbite hiding under the blankets.”

By the time Dr. Peddie was finished wrapping the Captain’s every frostbitten finger in a manner fit for a Pharaoh, his shivering had begun to subside to a low, constant rhythm that seemed to please the doctor greatly. And while he stitched the three gashes deep enough to require it, Crozier moved his head on the pillow, and grumbled something low and indistinct, pleasing the doctor even more. With a final smear of thick, camphor-smelling frostbite salve on the Captain’s nose and cheekbones, Dr. Peddie gathered up his things, and took his leave, giving Jopson these instructions,

“Well, that’s everything to be done for the moment, and no need to worry, lad, he’s in fine shape, really. All that’s needed is for you to stay where you are for another hour or two, at the very least until he’s awake, and has completely stopped with the shivers. And I’d really prefer if you stayed longer, but we both know the Captain, and if he bodily removes you, there’s little either of us can do about it. Just ensure that when he awakens, he drinks that hot tea just on the table there. It’s well wrapped and should keep warm for a good while. He needs warming, inside and out. Should there be any problems, I’ll be in my quarters. Come and fetch me when the Captain’s well awakened – I should like to have a bit of a chat with him. For now, stay just as you are, you seem to be doing the man good!”

After the last echo of closing doors and retreating footsteps had faded, Crozier opened a single bleary eye to Jopson’s worried face, and began a low, hoarse grumble.

“D’you have any idea how difficult it is to feign sleep, between you jabbing my hip with that, well… and that thrice damned doctor sticking his needles in the other side?” 

“You’re awake, Sir! How long…?” Jopson was wide eyed in his surprise and relief.

“Since around when Peddie decided to sew me up like a living waistcoat. Why exactly he felt it necessary is...”

Crozier’s words were cut off by the means of Jopson covering his mouth firmly with his own, in a sound, joyous kiss. Taken as he was by surprise, Crozier first stiffened, then relaxed into it, enjoying the warmth lapping at his lips and tongue. How wondrous it felt to lay back and be well kissed! Then, along with a bit more consciousness, awareness of how he’d ended up in his bunk in midmorning, being stabbed by the doctor’s vicious needle and held tight by his steward arose in him, and he drew back, pulling his head away and sputtering.

“What in the?...No...Stop!...Wha...”

Crozier did not manage to close his eyes quickly enough to not see Jopson’s beatific smile crumble and fall. Nor could he block from his hearing how the lad’s voice had gone unusually quiet and dull, with a hint of a scarcely controlled quaver. 

“Oh, I see. So you were avoiding me this morning after all, Captain. And last night – it was all really only a game, as you said, with no more meaning or importance than that. I… I understand. But if you’ll excuse me, Dr. Peddie has ordered me to remain right here, until you have at least finished the hot tea on the table there. Please don’t trouble yourself to attempt to get up – your left ankle is fairly badly sprained, as you may have noticed, and you aren’t to walk on it. I’ll fetch the tea for you, and then I’ll go and fetch the doctor as well. He said he’d like to speak with you.” All this was addressed blankly to the cabin wall, toward which Jopson had curled like some small wounded animal. Crozier raised heavily bandaged hands to his face, and seemed to reply to them.

“Oh God, I’ve made a right cock up of things, haven’t I? Used you as poorly as a common dockside doxy, and treated you as if I was some callow young girl with a platypus...”

“With a what?” Jopson frowned slightly over his shoulder.

“Never you mind.” 

For a moment the cabin was silent but for the creak and groan of timbers and ice. Jopson wondered that his own heart was not making such a noise itself; surely it was under no less strain than the ship, and just as certainly it was slowly being crushed. Finally, Crozier cleared his throat and spoke, his voice low and sad.

“Thomas, I must apologise for my behaviour. Last night was a mistake, and an act of impulse, and… and a miracle. Were it possible, I would have you with me every night, but we both know that...”

“We both know what, Sir?” Now Jopson rolled to face Crozier, and his voice was angry. “I know that you don’t give a rat’s ragged arse for the laws of God, or care overmuch what men think of you, besides your reputation as a sailor and a ship’s Master. I know that if anybody was ever in a position to carry on in such a way privately onboard without drawing any attention, it would be the Captain and his steward. And I know everything about this crew – that Gibson’s inverted, though I’m not yet sure who his lover is; that Hickey’s not who he says he is, but that he’s a sharp player to watch carefully; that underneath the piety and prayers, Irving only signed on because he’d left at least one respectable girl in a family way; and that we’ve at least one woman disguised among the crew as well, though I’ve not figured out who she is yet. And still you can’t allow yourself a bit of private pleasure and affection from the one man who will always keep all of your secrets?” Jopson’s hands had come to grip Crozier’s shoulders, and their noses were nearly tip to tip.

“It is a hanging offence,” said the Captain weakly. This time Jopson held his eyes with the force of his own blazing blue gaze. He tilted his chin defiantly, bringing his lips even nearer to Crozier’s. 

“Then do what you will, with me, Sir. Flog me to within an inch of my life, with your own hands. Place the noose around my neck yourself. Pronounce my sentence with your two lips. Punish _me_ for these sins, Sir. Not yourself.” 

Quite suddenly, Jopson found himself pinned to the bed by the Captain’s full weight, wrists held in a grip strong as shackles in spite of the bandages, mouth being devoured as if it were the last source of air in the world. He laughed, insomuch as he was able, and spread his legs wide around the Captain’s hips, pressing his own hips upward into the hard heat he felt there. 

“Do you know, truly, what you ask for, Jopson?” growled Crozier, pausing from the fierce kiss for a breath, then working his mouth down Jopson’s smooth, freshly shaven jawline, savouring the pained gasp when he bit an earlobe, then trailing his mouth down that pale neck, tasting the ecstatic pulse under his tongue. The sudden mewling cry and full body arc when he sank his teeth hard into the muscle at the juncture of neck and shoulder nearly brought him off right then and there. He brought his lips back up to Jopson’s ear. “Last night’s game, Thomas. There was more truth to it than I might have let on. I must confess, I have always had a desire to treat a lovely young man in my care with a degree of what one might call loving cruelty.” At those words, Jopson arched and ground his hips deliciously upward again. 

“Well then I must confess, Sir, that I’ve been wishing for years now that you were the very sort of cruel Captain you described, and that I was your boy, to be taken and used however you see fit.” Through his haze of lust, Jopson noticed that the Captain’s cheeks had taken on a healthy flush, and that he was no longer shivering at all. Indeed, his body felt hot and hard on his, just as he’d imagined so many times before. 

“I warn you, it will not all be pleasure for you. It might amuse me at times to watch you suffer in various ways.” At this moment, even in his nightshirt and daubed with white frostbite salve, Crozier did indeed look capable of playing the role he described, and inflicting cruelties for his own amusement. 

“Well, Sir, I have been a wicked and naughty lad,” replied Jopson breathlessly, grinning up at him. “For instance, while I was changing you, I was having the most wicked thoughts regarding your unclothed body, and how much I should like to touch it in a lewd and indecent manner.” Crozier’s eyebrows rose at this. 

“Indeed? You will require punishment once I’ve healed sufficiently to administer it. Until then though, I should insist on a complete demonstration of such lewd and indecent thoughts.” With that, he captured Jopson’s mouth with his own again, and rolled onto his back to allow more full access to his steward's wandering hands. 

 

It was another four hours before Dr. Peddie tapped on the door of the Great Cabin to make sure that all was well within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two bits of interesting information:  
> For series only fans, book!Irving is indeed something of a devious seducer himself, when it comes to well bred young ladies. In fact, he joined the Franklin Expedition specifically to escape a fiancee who is most likely pregnant, and whom he has no intention of ever marrying. He is indeed a paragon of virtue.
> 
> And for archaeology buffs, I've read that recent DNA testing on bones from Franklin Expedition sites on King William Island has revealed at least four individuals who did not have Y chromosomes. You read that right - there were likely at least four women among the crew. I'm interpreting this as being part of the old tradition of women who didn't fancy being property, or dying of childbirth before the age of 30, cross dressing if they could pass, and joining male occupations, like the Royal Navy. It was a far more common practice than most people are aware of, because let's face it, being a working class woman anytime before the 20th c. sucked! At least as a working class man you could wear pants and be paid a bit more!


	3. Confession and Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Crozier is healing well after his (drunken angst driven) accident, he realises that he and Jopson need to have one of those serious relationship talks. And they somehow manage to prove that (semi) negotiated, enthusiastic consent in a (semi) established relationship can be hot as hell.  
> Suck on this, Fifty Shades!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF you haven't read the tags here, it's on your head, not mine, as there's some possibly squicky material in this chapter. So go check the tags. Do it. NOW, BITCHES!
> 
> Oh, and in case anyone thinks that the "light" breathplay portrayed here is safe, think again. *Any* activity that restricts the flow of blood or oxygen to the brain is risky, and should be approached with caution, by consenting adults aware of the risks, who are also aware of how to do effective CPR in case of accidents. A few idiots die this way every year. Don't be one of them.

Over the next two weeks of Captain Crozier’s gradual but steady convalescence from his injuries, he and Jopson fell into a rather regular routine. Mornings would begin more or less as they had before, with the exception that Crozier began to fall into the habit of addressing his steward in a less formal manner; “Thomas”, “My boy,” or even “My handsome lad,” became sprinkled in with “Mr. Jopson” when they were alone, as did relatively gentle, if intimate touches. Thomas Jopson considered most of these touches to his face, hands, back, or even legs to be “relatively gentle” largely because of first the bandaged, and then still pink, sore and healing state of the Captain’s frostbitten fingers; once, he’d unwisely bent over to retrieve something from the deck directly in front of Crozier, and had been on the receiving end of a hard, gleeful, open handed smack on the bottom that had left him smarting even through his trousers. He’d turned, astounded, to see the Captain sitting, injured foot elevated on a pillowed stool, with a smug expression far more suited to someone like Mr. Hickey, or Commander Fitzjames. After his initial surprise, Jopson had simply bowed graciously, and said,

“Thank you Sir, for your attentions.” Then he’d gone about his duties, cherishing his warm, stinging bottom, and feeling nearly as smug as the Captain had appeared.

At first, while the Captain’s hands had been more or less debilitated, Thomas Jopson’s duties had been far more personal and “hands-on” than previously; that this was both necessary and completely unremarked upon, and in fact taken as absolutely natural by everyone around them was seen as a delightful inside joke, and a rare treat as well. And though he was tempted by every “innocent” touch of his hands to Crozier’s skin, Jopson knew better than to take too many liberties with his Captain’s suddenly available body, particularly in the morning when there were too many matters and duties to be seen to, and too much of a chance of sudden outside interruptions from Officers in need of the Captain’s advice or authority in some situation or other. Knowing this, Captain Crozier seemed to delight in taunting Jopson with softly spoken comments such as,

“Be sure to do a particularly careful job washing my prick this morning, my lovely boy, as you’ll be passing at least an hour on your knees with it tonight.”

At which point Jopson would often become downright light headed, both from his sudden inability to breathe normally, and the rush of blood from his brain to elsewhere in his body. The Captain would then just smile slyly, and wait for him to recover his composure.

Other times, the Captain would forgo any teasing, waiting, or common decency, and order Jopson under the blankets before he even left his bed, to pleasure him quickly with mouth or hand, at his preference. Jopson’s own arousal on these occasions would, of course, be politely ignored by both of them.

Over the course of a day, it would be considered again perfectly normal that Jopson would be found hovering nearer than usual to his master, particularly before Crozier’s injured ankle had been able to take any weight on its own, or even fit inside a regular boot, and he’d been forced to hobble along on a crutch, with his left foot warmly wrapped in layers of bandages and thick socks. It was only natural, after all, that the Captain’s body servant should see to it that he did no further injury to his body, and was always close by in case of a slip, or dropped crutch, to catch him. On more than one occasion when this happened, Jopson might have sworn that it had been done apurpose, in order to trap him bodily against the wall of an otherwise empty passage, and to grasp at his arm, waist, and even his arse in a not overly gentle manner, and thus ostensibly avoid another dangerous fall. On these occasions, Jopson would merely smile his most innocent smile, help Crozier regain his balance, and cheerfully warn him to take greater care, as his ankle was still healing.

“We wouldn’t want you to have to spend any more unnecessary time in bed again, would we, Sir?” Thomas Jopson would swear that his broad smile was intended in all sincerity, and who could doubt those wide, clear, blue eyes?

And on the first few nights after his injury, if Captain Crozier retired somewhat earlier than was his usual custom, it was not looked upon as a particularly odd thing; those who knew him best rather saw him bowing to the pressures from his concerned doctor and steward, who, worried for his well being, fussed over him like a pair of hens, and then threatened even further fussing and coddling until he finally gave in. Jopson did nothing to dispel this assumption, as he would be shut up in the Great Cabin with the Captain for long hours on those nights, caring for his needs to be sure, but for _which_ needs he never specified.

Evenings were now _far_ more interesting for both Captain Crozier, and for his faithful manservant.

Of course, everything appeared to carry on as before, as was right and proper. Dinner with whichever officers were not on watch would be followed by drinks and talk of whatever the day’s greatest troubles or concerns might be. Mostly the weather, petty squabbles among the men, and the food. While waiting at table, and pouring for the gentlemen, Jopson would carefully overhear every word that was spoken, file it away in his mind for later consideration, and continue his private work as one of Francis Crozier’s greatest assets: a clever and analytical informer among both the officers and regular seamen. A good steward was, after all, as good as invisible, and Thomas Jopson was very good at his job, with better reason than ever to practice unobtrusiveness. He would grab his own quick meal after clearing the officers’ table, with the help mainly of Billy Gibson, who seemed to be spending too much time of late in the company of the questionable Cornelius Hickey. Though he felt half a hypocrite in reporting it, Jopson told the Captain as much, as Hickey had already drawn his attention as a potential troublemaker, and Gibson was something of a crafty sort as well, in the considered opinion of Thomas Jopson. But surely whatever sordid affairs they may be conducting had nothing in common with the activities that he and the Captain shared, late at night. Surely not.

Because things really had not changed _that_ much, had they? Captain Crozier would have a drink, or two, or more before he decided to prepare for bed, (though of late he seemed to be drinking a bit less and preparing for bed a bit earlier, and that was for the good, wasn’t it?), and then he would call Jopson into his bedchamber to assist him. The main difference now being that before assisting the Captain out of his uniform and into his nightshirt, Jopson would first be required to unclothe himself, as tidily and gracefully as he was capable of doing, nothing at all like that first night of nerves and trembles! Only once he was fully, pleasingly, nude would he be allowed to help Captain Crozier disrobe, with the Captain pausing to caress, taste, pinch, or fondle his steward when and wherever the fancy struck him. Once both men were fully bare, then the Captain would decide (or announce his previously planned decision) how he would prefer to be sexually serviced that evening. His favoured method seemed to be by mouth, though he very much enjoyed Jopson’s skilled and nimble hands as well. A few wonderful times he had slicked up his steward’s thighs with oil, then ordered him to hold them tight together while he thrust his hard cock betwixt them, (which was, in Jopson’s opinion, an indescribably erotic imitation of outright buggery,) and on one unforgettable occasion, when an extended session of deep and passionate kissing had become too heated to end, he’d sat Jopson on his lap, legs wrapped round his waist, and allowed him to rub both their pricks together most deliciously, then thrust them side by side between his hands’ tight grip, made slippery with their own excitement, until they released in almost exact unison.

After the Captain had been pleasured sufficiently, he would order Jopson to his knees beside the bed, where his performance both of the day’s tasks, and of the evening’s, would be judged. If satisfactory, he would be allowed to pleasure himself, as he was by that time invariably desperate to do, while the Captain looked on with obvious enjoyment, and a distractingly lewd commentary. Captain Crozier, he’d discovered, had an admirable gift for talking filth when he liked, and used it well. Jopson could honestly say that he’d never dreamed what a stunning effect a gruff voice calling him a “gutter-fucking, hungry-arsed, prick-licking, Nancy-boy” might have upon him, particularly when an equally rough hand had hold of him by the scrotum. Unfortunately, he’d also use it on the unsatisfactory nights, when Jopson would be sent to his own bed unfulfilled, and with no dispensation to pleasure himself once alone. Those nights he would eventually fall asleep into feverishly bizarre and sensual dreams, more often than not awakening having involuntarily glued himself to both the sheets and his nightshirt. At least he did his own laundry. The other nights were better, when he could fall into his bed tired and satisfied, alone, but often with the taste of his Captain still at the back of his throat.

This night, though; this night was to be different, special. This was to be a long promised night of thrilling, arousing, and deliciously appalling activity, and Thomas Jopson was both bursting at the seams with anticipation, and scared stiff.

This was to be his Night of Judgement.

 

 Captain Crozier had informed him that such an event was to take place five nights previously, after he’d begun to hobble about independently with the use of an ice axe as a walking stick, and his frostbitten fingers were comfortable enough to write on their own, handle the axe, and even grasp the guide ropes beside the ladderways between decks. The Captain had been in fine form that day, touring the entire ship on a surprise inspection, and had seemed to take great pleasure both where he found particularly good order, above and beyond regulations, and when he discovered that crewmen had been slacking or skiving in his temporary absence; assigning extra duty rounds, fussy, peevish, or downright backbreaking chores, and actually offering to have more than one man flogged for impertinence. Jopson could tell that he’d secretly enjoyed himself greatly, but also that he’d overtaxed himself, and was just as greatly relieved to take his seat by the stove in the Great Cabin, with his glass of whisky and his pipe. Then he’d motioned for Jopson to take the seat to his right at the table, and had poured out a measure of whisky into one of his fine glasses, and handed it to his bemused steward, while holding up his own glass for a toast.

“To being up and about, and having reliable assistance in all things,” he’d said. Jopson had raised his glass and simply replied,

“Cheers, Sir.” It was far better, and far stronger liquor than he was accustomed to, and it went down with a smooth, mellow burn. Jopson raised his glass and declared,

“To your swift and complete recovery, and continued good health, Sir.” Crozier had returned a lopsided smile and a raised glass.

“I’ll drink to that, my lad.” replied the Captain, a glint of something foreboding in his eyes, though his smile was kind. The two men sat quiet and companionably with their drinks for a short while, Captain Crozier apparently turning some thought over and about in his mind. Finally, he set down his pipe on a small dish, and turned to look fondly at Jopson.

“Do you recall, Jopson, all of the words you spoke that morning I was regrettably injured, and awoke to find that I couldn’t rid my bed of you?”

“Do you intend to rid your bed of me, Sir?” asked Jopson, in a light and teasing voice, the unaccustomed strong drink perhaps making him brave. “Because if you do, you’ll find that I have quite the grip, where mattresses are concerned. Mattresses, and strong, handsome, ships’ Captains. I can cling like a barnacle.” With that he slipped from his own chair to seat himself in his Captain’s lap, arms wound behind his neck, pulling himself in almost close enough to kiss.

“Mmmm… No, I can’t say that would be my intention, my pretty boy,” was the answer. “Rather that I’ve had the time to consider some rash statements you made that day, and decided that you should be held to them.” Though the Captain’s eyes were gentle on Thomas Jopson’s face, and he’d wrapped his own arms around the young man in his lap, there was an edge to his voice that left Thomas a bit worried. He’d begged extravagantly to continue as the Captain’s lover and plaything that day, but the exact terms were less than clear in his memory. Captain Crozier’s memory though, was extremely detailed.

“I recall you begging me to do whatever I would with you, Tommy boy. Of which I’ve only just scratched the surface thus far.” Crozier drew the sharp edge of a fingernail down behind Jopson’s ear, causing him to draw in a quick breath. The smile that the Captain returned at this was wicked.

“You asked me to flog you to within an inch of your life. I know for a fact that you’ve never actually been flogged, you with your spotless record, Thomas Jopson, and I also know that you’d be stunningly beautiful with your back properly striped, weeping with the pain and the disgrace. Do you still think you should enjoy that now, my boy?”

When Jopson was unable to answer, only to stutter wordlessly, Crozier laid a hand on his knee, then slid it up his thigh slowly, until it reached a growing bulge in his trousers, hard as the ice that enclosed their ship, but fever hot.

“I believe I feel my answer right here, my lad. We’ll have to find some sufficiently dire misbehaviour for you in order to warrant it, at some time. Apart from shagging the Captain, of course. You also asked for the noose, but I’m afraid I’ll have to forego that punishment, dear boy, as I rather prefer you living and breathing. But...” At this his hand crept from Jopson’s groin to his throat, and began to slowly tighten, pressing on the windpipe and vital arteries, “… there are other, non-fatal ways to achieve similar effects.” Just as the room began to whirl about Thomas Jopson, and black spots collected in his vision, the hand dropped, and he would have fallen to the deck as the blood rushed back to his head, and he gasped for air, had Captain Crozier not pulled him closer in his arms, gently kissing Jopson under the jaw, where his head had fallen back, just above where the hard, cruel hand had been. The Captain’s lips landed very close to his melting steward’s ear, so he finished his recitation in a low rasp that sounded to Jopson like sin itself.

“You asked to be punished for both your own wrongs, and for mine as well. Unwise, as you’ve no knowledge of the extent of my wrongs, and don’t know the penalties for all we’ve got between us. Oh, and you declared yourself my own, to take and to do with as I see fit. Also unwise, as I just might see fit to bend you over this table right now, fuck you dry until your arse was raw, and then call in the ship’s Marines to each take a turn fucking you bloody as well.”

Thomas Jopson squirmed and whimpered in Crozier’s lap at that, as the blood rushed from his head again, and pulsed visibly through the clinging crotch of his trousers. The Captain laughed out loud at this, and kissed him fiercely.

“You’re just a degenerate, cock-starved, boy-whore, aren’t you? Do you _really_ want all that, or is it all just filth that sounds good when there’s  hands on your body or a prick in your throat, that you could never truly go through with? That’s the _real_ question here, Tommy boy. I’m quite sure that, with you willing, I could inflict near anything that you would enjoy upon you, short of permanent damage. So the question lies with you, my lad. _Just how far are you willin_ _g to go?”_

Thomas Jopson had no immediate answer but to kiss his Captain back, just as hard, plunging his tongue deep into the wonderously cruel mouth, flavoured with whisky, tobacco, and harsh,  vicious words of desire. Then he was hauled back by a strong hand on his collar. 

“You’ve honestly got no real answers to what I ask, do you, boy?” Crozier seemed  sincerely angry at this, for reasons that Jopson couldn’t fathom. 

 “Well, not knowing what you do and do not want is just as dangerous as if I didn’t care a whit for your own well being, lad! Get your pretty arse out of here, and go _think_ about the things I ask  you! Oh, I’ll be calling you back to come prepare my bed and suck me dry, but _YOU_ will have no satisfaction until you have answers for me, and good ones at that. There should be another damned officers’ dinner over on Erebus in a few days’ time. My ankle won’t be up to the walk over the ice yet, and you’ll be staying back here to care for your Captain. I’ll be expecting answers then, when we’ve got a bit of privacy, and you can bleeding well expect me to act on at least something of what you see fit to tell, if it happens to be halfway reasonable. Now just go!”

 

And so here Thomas Jopson stood,  with a pounding heart, and half a cockstand, summoning the courage to knock on the door of the Great Cabin, his own place of work for close on two years now, afraid to enter as he usually would.  He attempted to swallow his fear, nearly succeeded at swallowing his tongue, and forced himself forward, tapping politely at the door, as a common seaman come for an audience with the Captain would do. And he felt his stomach drop out of his body, through the deck, straight through the ship’s  reinforced hull, and into the frigid water far below, when he heard his Captain’s voice call him in, more formally than was usual. 

“Enter, Mr. Jopson.”

Keeping himself breathing by force of will alone, Jopson entered the Great Cabin.  Captain Crozier was a fine sight in his full dress uniform, sitting comfortably behind the  grand mahogany desk which he usually neglected in favour of the  more modest table closer to the stove. Though more desirable than ever, he did not, at the moment, look a thing like a lover to Thomas Jopson. He appeared rather to be precisely what he was; a Captain in Her Majesty’s Navy, calling an errant crew member to account.  Jopson froze, until the Captain spoke again.

“If you would be so good as to close and lock the door behind you? Our business here should best be conducted in privacy, Jopson.” Somehow, Jopson was able to fall onto his training, and follow orders automatically, with a politely bowed head, and an equally polite,

“Yes, Sir,”

then  managed to slide the door shut, and both latch and bolt it, without breaking a thing, his own neck included.  Somehow, his feet then carried him to the centre of the room, to stand before the desk, and the imposing figure seated behind it. He stood at parade rest, glad that the posture hid that his hands were trembling, and attempted to ignore the single, persistent drop of sweat that began at his starched collar, and continued a slow, maddening course down his back, as he inwardly cringed under the Captain’s severe gaze. Finally, Captain Crozier spoke.

“Now, Mr. Jopson, I trust that you have had a chance to seriously consider the matters I put before  you when last we spoke, and I hope most sincerely that you will be able to answer to me this time, if we are to continue our relations as they have been.  Make no mistake that I am very fond of you, and that I would very much enjoy expanding the nature of our private activities. I  do  find you  terribly attractive, as well as being an excellent steward, and far more intelligent than average – except in this one, singular area, particularly where your own  safety and well being  are concerned.  In this current situation,” here he spread his white leather gloved hands wide, as if to encompass the frozen-still ship, the groaning ice  and wailing wind just outside, and the enorm ity of the trouble  in which they both understood themselves, and the entire Expedition to be, “I’ve worries and cares  enough to  bedevil me, without having to worry whether I’ve inadvertently harmed my lover and steward because he either has no clue what he really wants, or  he lacks the balls to tell me.  Do you understand?”

Whatever Jopson might have been expecting when he entered the room, compliments and words of care had not been anywhere near his thoughts. At first he could only nod dumbly, then pulled his mind forcibly back into action and said,

“Yes, yes Sir, I think that I understand.” His handsome brow wrinkled in confusion. “Or at least I may understand. Have I been too passive for your liking, Sir?  Would you prefer that I put up a bit of a struggle? ”  Crozier pounded the desk in frustration.

“You don’t understand in the least! This has _nothing_ to do with what I prefer! Nothing! Jesus bleeding Christ, boy, have you no preferences of your own?  Is there nothing that you fear or dislike so that you would rather throw yourself overboard than face it? And have you no desires, no wicked fantasies, nothing that you wish that I might do to you, and imagine when you bring yourself off, the nights I’ve sent you to bed and you think I can’t hear you? Nothing that you might fall to your knees and beg me for? _Nothing?!?”_

At this, Thomas Jopson could not have remained standing had he tried; he dropped to his knees before the imposing mass of the Captain’s desk, and the awe inspiring temper of the Captain himself. He found that he could not raise his hanging head, and a long moment passed before he could bring himself to speak. 

“My apologies, Sir. This is all so new to me, I’ve no idea how to behave. And I must confess that the first and most cherished fantasy I’ve ever had was simply to belong to you. I’ve wanted you, Sir, for as long as I’ve served under you, Even as a lad, I wished that you would notice me, touch me, kiss me. Now that you have, it has been like the answer to a  most sinful prayer. Sometimes I imagine, Sir, that I was that young lad again, before we set out for Antarctica, and that you took notice of me then rather than now, and it’s most wonderfully wicked. Oh, I know that you wouldn’t lay a hand on a young boy, but the imagining… It’s not so terribly wrong, is it?”  He chanced to raise huge, mournful, blue eyes, magnified by the tears  that he fought not to shed, to his beloved Captain.

“ Come here , Tommy boy,” said Crozier, his voice now gentle and pensive, “ Stay on your knees, but come behind the desk, good and close. That’s it.” Jopson leaned his face into the buttery soft kid leather of the glove that cupped his cheek  and made an effort not to sigh aloud . 

“ I wouldn’t think that imagination could possibly harm you. Nor do I think that it could possibly harm me to touch you more than I do –  I find myself thinking of my hands on your lovely body far more often than they actually are. And I do remember you as a boy – you were astoundingly beautiful then, and I could imagine that a terribly bad man would very much want to take advantage of such a beautiful boy.” He sighed deeply. “Sometimes I think myself to be a very bad man indeed. But not so bad that I would allow you to be harmed. You must have some  human limits.” 

“But that’s it precisely, Sir!” he said. “I’ve always known that you wouldn’t allow anything to harm me, or any other member of your crew if you could help it. Not deliberately! I trust you absolutely.”

He was shocked by the sudden disappearance of the soft, caressing glove, and its reappearance in a sharp slap across his cheekbone. He gasped, more in surprise than pain, and his previously forgotten cock gave a sudden twitch.

 “That’s a fool’s trust, my lad!” Crozier snapped in reply. “I’m a mortal man, and there’s none of us is infallible. I can’t read your mind to find your weak spots. I don’t know if a flogging would be a pleasure to you, or if it would break you. That is why I need you to tell me these things!”

“I… I really don’t know either, Sir.”  Jopson hung his head again. “ To be honest,  I was  half talking out my arse when I said all that rot. I just wanted to be able to stay with you. I mean to say, I know that there’s something  wrong and queer about me;  that I prefer a strong man to a pretty lass, that I enjoy things that by rights should just hurt – slaps and pinches and bites and the like, and I’ve always loved a good bruise or two, but that’s a mile from a  real flogging, of course. Still, I love it when you treat me roughly,  or tie me like a prisoner .  I love when you say awful, filthy things to me. I love when you’re cruel, and demanding, and unfair to me,  but not always,  if that makes the least bit of sense. I love your usual  small kindnesses and how you protect us all, and I also love when you hold and kiss me, like a true lover.  And I think I must be mad, Sir, because everything that seems and feels right to me is wrong,  and everything wrong, and wicked, and dirty seems right !” 

Captain Crozier returned his hand to gently stroke  the spot of hectic pink  in Jopson’s cheek, and his sleek, dark hair. 

“That doesn’t mean you’re mad, Tommy. It means you’re human. We’ve all our own queer fancies and desires. Even the best bred young ladies  often have a  secret fancy for, say,  swimming in the altogether, or a platypus, or the like.  And we’re among the lucky ones, my boy. Your queer fancies seem to match my queer fancies quite nicely, don’t they? And we get on better than well together – iced in as master and servant, and only grown more fond  of one another , rather than attempting murder yet?” 

“Well,” said Jopson, with a small, shy smile, “I can’t say I’d mind if you were to  _play_ at murdering me, perhaps with ropes, and a blindfold, and a sharp knife, or...” 

“Ohh, you filthy little bastard!”  Francis Crozier finally lost his careful composure,  gr asped Jopson by the lapels of his jacket, and hauled him to his feet, bending him back over the desk, where he pinned him in a brutal kiss. 

“ You may not be mad, Thomas Jopson, but you can drive a man there easily enough! Tonight you’ll be bound and buggered, and you can struggle and beg and protest to your precious heart’s content, and it won’t change a goddamn thing! Now give me a word!”

“A… word?” From his place on the desk, still held down solidly, Jopson was utterly confounded.

“Yes, you  cock- silly boy, a  _word_ , something out of the ordinary, to let me know that I really  _should_ stop, so you can kick and fuss all you like, and I can  ignore it and enjoy it all unless you say that word!” It took a moment for  Jopson to fully comprehend what was being asked, as the Captain was busily unfastening his jacket, waistcoat, and then shirt, but the idea finally struck home while his neck was being sucked bruisingly hard on one side, and the opposite nipple was being delightfully twisted between  smooth ,  kidskin covered fingers.

“A word!” he choked out. “That ridiculous animal you keep mentioning! Platypus! The word is platypus!”

The sputtering bark of half-choked laughter against his own skin was not the reaction Jopson had anticipated, but it was a most definite reaction. 

“Oh ho, now  _there’s_ a word to get a man’s attention! Don’t be afraid to use it if need be, otherwise, get your  pretty arse to that bunk, so I can do what you asked of me in the first place – I plan to take you, good and hard, and do what I wish with this lovely body of yours, and you, you dirty-minded slut, are going to love every second of it. And that’s an order!” 

“Yes Sir!” Had his arm not still been pinned down, Jopson would have saluted to that. As it  was , he squirmed from his position half-prone across the desk and under the Captain, and darted for the bed-cabin,  with Crozier right on his heels, ready to slam the sliding door shut behind them, and then throw him down bodily on the bunk, in order to continue his ravishment in a somewhat more comfortable location.

And no mistake, this was definitely a ravishment rather than their usual, more controlled, indulgences. Jopson doubted that he could have moved from the bunk if he’d wanted to, not that he’d any inclination to make an attempt, so thoroughly was he held in the Captain’s arms, and by the weight of his body. He closed his eyes and luxuriated in being allowed to simply wriggle, and moan, and whimper, as his clothes were roughly  removed from his body, and his warm, naked flesh was pawed ungently by soft, leather gloved hands. A beautifully naughty idea struck him as one of Crozier’s  thighs forced its way  up between his, he felt a hard pressure at his hip, and one of the hands began its work on his trouser buttons.

“Ohhh Captain,” he gasped, pitching his voice higher and breathier than nature intended, “I though you said you’d not lay a hand on a boy so young!  I’d never have come south here with you had I known!” 

The Captain gave a start and  looked up for a moment, into Jopson’s intentionally wide eyes, and  mischiveous smile, lower lip barely caught between his teeth. Then Crozier broke out into a smile too, slow and predatory. 

“So that’s the game you wish to play here, is it?” His voice was  lower and rougher than usual. He paused, removing and balling up his pristine gloves, and tossing them off into a corner. “Well, my boy, it’s too late for regrets now. We can’t be turning back to Hobart because one little lad is unhappy with attentions from the Captain. We’ve got a ways to go before we even reach Antarctic waters; by the time we get there, you might even have learned to enjoy this.” He reached a hand down between Jopson’s legs again,  amazed that he could feel a racing pulse even through the heavy fabric, and gave a squeeze just the right side of painful. Jopson just barely managed to shape his cry of pleasure into a plaintive,

“No!”

before  Crozier had grabbed his wrists in the other hand, and  held them over his head, leaning his weight onto them and making escape impossible.

“You might say no with your mouth, lad, but there’s a different story being told in your trousers. You’re so damn hard  that I’d swear that you signed on this ship just so I could bugger you all the way to the South Pole and back. I know what you really want here.” 

“Oh, God help me, no! Please, Sir, stop!”  Jopson thrilled in bucking, and writhing, and feigning resistance, calling for the precise opposite of what he craved, while his Captain used a leg to force his knees apart, and then finished unfastening his trousers. Jopson heard the front of his drawers tear, as Crozier yanked them open and slid a hand inside,  first stroking a thumb down the length of his prick, then sliding further back to roll his bollocks about in his hand.

“Mmmmm… Tender boyflesh, so, so sweet,” sighed Crozier, as Jopson attempted to pull away from his grasp, causing a heavy, stretching sensation that was something like pain, but far better. Crozier held tight, and let him pull, savouring his shallow, huffing breaths, the tortured lines between his eyebrows, and the bright flush quickly colouring his chest, cheeks, and ears. When it became clear that Jopson was not going to stop pulling anytime soon, the Captain relaxed his grip, and began to gently thumb the head of his cock, which was even harder than before. 

“Careful, boy! Keep struggling like that and you could damage the goods. I see I’ll have to restrain you after all.”

“Oh God, oh fuck, no! Just please let me fucking go!”

The slap this time was harder than before, and backhanded.

“Language, my lad! Do I need to gag you too?” Jopson shook his head violently, lips pressed tight together.

“Good. Because I  _do_ enjoy listening to you whine and beg.” Jopson couldn’t help a closed-mouth whine in response to that. It was just too much fun. 

“ That’s a good boy. Now stay still, damn you!” The Captain moved up the narrow bed until he was nearly sitting on Jopson’s chest, knees just above his shoulders impeding the movement of his steward’s arms, the bulging crotch of his trousers hovering just above the young man’s face. Jopson could smell his lover’s familiar musky scent, even through the heavy woolens, and the thick long drawers beneath. He supposed he’d be having to do laundry soon enough, but for now was content to simply lie back and enjoy the careful abuse. Crozier had bent down to the cabinet under the bunk, and now emerged with a number of carefully coiled lengths of rope in his hands. 

“ This should simplify matters,” he said softly, as he tied a quick and sturdy cuff first around one of Jopson’s wrists, then the other, then took up the lengths of line still hanging from each, and tied them off to a lantern hook at the head of the berth. Jopson tugged at them experimentally, and for the look of the thing, but there was no give in the Captain’s ropework, nor had he expected any. 

“That’s right, Tommy boy,” said Crozier, his voice taunting. “Try to free yourself if you like, but it’ll do you no good.” Now he finally had the chance, and was quickly removing his own jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, and unbuttoning his shirt. “Like it or not, this time you are well and truly  _fucked_ , my boy!” 

Jopson couldn’t help a deliberately pathetic whimper in response, at which the Captain moved down the bunk, took hold of the tops of his trousers and drawers, and shucked them from his body in a single, fast motion that left Jopson feeling as naked as an oyster without a shell.  Attempting to keep an appropriate expression of distress and dread on his face, he crossed his ankles, and drew his knees up, in a futile attempt to cover and protect himself. This attempt was indeed proved futile, as Crozier, with a low and lascivious laugh, ran his hands down the smooth, unprotected planes of Jopson’s flanks, pausing to stroke at his hipbones, then continuing down his thighs, before taking a knee in each hand and wrenching them apart, laughing again at his boy’s despairing moan.

“Please, Sir, please, don’t!  Not like this!” 

“Oh no?” sneered Crozier, having taken up another coil of rope, and winding it around the thickest bit of Jopson’s thigh in another cuff, this one looser, but with longer trailing lines, which he attached to the same hook as the wrist ropes, puling his leg upward, and making it impossible to cover any of his most private places with it. The Captain began to tie off his other leg in the same manner.

“And how  _would_ you have me take you, boy? We both know what a cheap and easy harlot you are; would you prefer to be on your knees below decks like I found you, making sweet mouth music for the other boys, and some of the younger mates? Or should I have just bent you over my desk and had you there, with no regard for your comfort?” He took one of the rather flat pillows that came with life onboard, folded it in half, and shoved it beneath Jopson’s hips, raising his arse into a perfect angle for viewing and more.  If Thomas Jopson had felt obscenely exposed before, now, with his arse in the air and his legs spread wide, his Captain with his shirt hanging from his shoulders, licking his lips as he slowly unbuttoned his trousers, staring directly at the puckered hole that Jopson could almost feel tightening out of delicious shame,  _now_ he understood the meaning of exposure and obscenity. His cock throbbed and dripped, fit to burst, and the only sound he could manage was a soft whine in the back of his throat. And then the Captain did the most wonderfully obscene thing yet.

He spread his ecstatic captive’s thighs even further, lowered his head, and slowly ran his tongue from the heavily dripping head of his cock, down and over his still sore bollocks, and actually passed it over his hole, probing a bit with the tip, before reversing the action and ending with a brief suckle on the painfully hard cock head. Jopson couldn’t help a long, low, moan at this; couldn’t believe the absolute  indecency of this action, or how good it had felt. 

“That’s right boy, you just lay back there and enjoy.” The captain’s low, gruff voice broke into his  mind, and he half-remembered his role. “Never actually been buggered before, have you, Tommy boy?” Jopson felt fantasy and reality overlap as he shook his head, helpless to stop what he most wanted to happen next. 

“That sweet little arse of yours is so goddamned tight that if I just shoved my prick in, I’d tear you right in half, and I’d rather keep you around for later. Try to relax, boy, and I’ll do the rest.” 

Oh dear God, help meeeeeeee...” Jopson’s voice trailed off as he felt his cheeks pulled apart, and the warm wetness of the Captain’s tongue running back and forth sloppily over his tightly clenched hole. And it felt  _good_ , so good that he didn’t even notice that he was spreading his thighs further, then tilting his hips upward to meet that wicked tongue, which had begun to swirl and probe at the little orifice, first dipping in and out gently, then pressing more insistently.  He gasped and panted and was incredulous at the sensation of  _opening_ as the tongue pressed harder and deeper, and was soon licking circles at the relaxing ring of muscle that he’d never considered  before - it could  actually be controlled like this, or it could be so sensitive to the pleasure of a hungry, massaging tongue, or the gentle stroking of a slick finger. Soon both tongue and finger were working in counterpoint at that small, stubborn muscle, and the feeling of openness was becoming more pronounced; this time when Jopson wh ined , it was because he truly craved  _more_ , not because he was playing the frightened boy. And then he felt the strangest sensation of all, as the finger slid  _inside_ him, smooth and quick, before he had a chance to react, while the tongue still worked his entrance.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!”  And this cry was one of pleasure as well, as the invading finger, on its slick glide, had hit  _something_ , some sensitive spot hidden in his belly that made Jopson feel like he could possibly spend from attentions to it alone, without ever having his prick touched. This was magic! Crozier lifted his head for a moment, but kept gently stroking with that single, slick finger.

“There’s no bloody God here to help you, lad, unless you fancy those old Roman Gods of drink and buggery. They’d be having a right good time watching over us now!” Then he lowered his head again, resumed his tonguework, and slowly inserted a second  thick finger next to the first. This time Jopson pushed himself down onto it, eager for more, and the Captain laughed. 

“So the wee  trollop shows his true colours, once he gets something in that hungry arse of his! You were made for this, weren’t you boy, and you just couldn’t wait for a real man to get you on your back and give you a right proper fucking!” His slippery fingers had begun to slide in and out rhythmically, barely grazing that spot of pure pleasure, then pumping deeper, then making a shallow scissor motion that caused a delicious, burning stretch at Jopson’s sensitive entry. The only response Jopson was capable of was to pant, whimper, and cant his hips up ward for more. 

“Sweet bleeding hell in a handbasket for two,” muttered Crozier darkly, stroking his jutting prick with the same oil he’d used on his fingers. “I hope you’re fucking ready,  Tommy boy, because I’m breaking your precious arse in now, whether you want it or not.  You spread good and wide for your Captain’s cock, little lad, because you’re about to get pounded right through this fucking bunk.” Jopson remembered himself enough to moan out,

“No, please Sir! Noooooooo...”

when he felt the hard, blunt heat of his Captain’s actual cock sliding into him in place of the fingers holding his arse open, and then he was lost in an incredible, unspeakable sensation of fullness, and a deep, tight stretch, as the Captain slowly worked his way in. Now he grasped a handful of Jopson’s hair, and kissed him long and hard and deep, as he began to pump at the freshly filled hole, and Jopson could only moan and whimper while thinking  _“that tongue was just in my arse! He’s kissing me and his tongue was just in my arse!”_ , a thought so filthy that  he nearly couldn’t process what was  actually happening in his arse right now; that it was beyond completely filled with hard, slippery heat, stretched shamefully wide, and that every deep, solid stroke felt better than the last, that the point of pure pleasure was being insistently rubbed at, and that he was lifting and pushing himself up to take more, and deeper.  He lost all sense of time – this might have gone on for minutes, hours, or an entire age of the universe.  His Captain was on top of him, panting, moaning, and sweating, growling long streams of absolute filth directly into his ear as if it were the sweetest of love poems, but all of Jopson’s awareness was centred in his stretched and overstimulated hole. It was all too much, he couldn’t take much more, surely pleasure this intense could kill a man… 

“No!” he cried out hoarsely. “No, no, no, no,  _YESSSSsssss!”_

Crozier’s body shook as he felt Jopson’s muscles clamp down around his prick, and with only a few more deep thrusts, he was spending too,  leaving his precious boy’s arse full of something to remember him by. Then he allowed himself the luxury of collapsing for a moment over the sweaty, sticky mess of his beautiful boy’s body, just until he caught his breath. Jopson had gone limp in his ropes, and was laying back, eyes closed, a wide smile spread across his face. Crozier kissed his hot, damp forehead, petted back the sweat soaked hair from his eyes, and murmered into his ear,

“Thomas Jopson, you’re an absolute marvel. You’re incredible.” 

As he sat up to the task of untying Jopson’s bindings as quickly as possible, Francis Crozier saw his eyes flicker open, and heard his hoarse voice speak softly.

“I always knew you were incredible, Captain.” 

Crozier hurried himself with the ropes, not even bothering to properly coil and stow them,  and hastily but gently wiped most of the  boy’s spendings from his chest and belly with his own shirt, before taking his beloved in his arms, holding him as tightly to his chest as he could. Tight was the only way to fit two grown men into one of these ridiculous bunks, but that was perfectly fine right now.

“Stay here tonight, Thomas. Stay with me. Please,” he said softly to his drowsing steward, between soft, gentle kisses and tender caresses. Blue eyes opened and looked up adoringly for a moment. 

“I will always stay with you, Captain,” was the barely audible response. 

Then he fell asleep, still smiling. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what? We're moving along that timeline, and getting into the series' territory! Buckle up, kids, things are about to get wacky!


	4. Parties and Petticoats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dubious spring has arrived in the Arctic for the crews of HMS Erebus and HMS Terror, and Sir John Franklin is enthusiastic to send out search parties for leads in the pack ice. Not everyone shares his enthusiasm, though. Meanwhile, strange goings on aboard Terror might threaten the relationship between Thomas Jopson and Captain Crozier. Things are not always what they seem here, where a potential threat provides a delightful new game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> First, this chapter has used the word "Esquimaix", in the same historical context as the series and the book. If historical context bothers you, I'm not sure why you're here, to be honest.  
> Substance Abuse, as Francis Crozier is an alcoholic, and this is both mentioned and demonstrated in this chapter. A character also relates this fact to the fact that he is Irish, but says nothing of it aloud. Being of Irish heritage, I don't personally find this offensive, but someone, potentially non-Irish, might.  
> Gender Issues, attempted to be handled as a sympathetic 19th c. man might see them. Not being a 19th c. man, I apologise if I have this all wrong, or offend any 19th c. men, or women sympathetic to 19th c. men.  
> Matters of female biology are mentioned, again through the perspective of a kind, but clueless 19th c. man. The above caveats apply.  
> Cross-dressing, by men, written by a woman who only cross-dresses occasionally as a man, and not a woman.  
> Abuse of proper ballet terminology. Honestly, I find this one least forgiveable...  
> Spanking happens, so if you were traumatised in any way by spanking, or simply disapprove of it in general, you have been warned.  
> Gender Play, by gay and bisexual men, experimenting with gender fluidity. I mean no disrespect to actual genderfluid individuals - you people seriously rock my world.  
> Daddy Kink also happens here, so if there's a problem with that you've been informed. I personally hate my male bio-progenitor, but I won't let it stand in the way of others having some fun.  
> Oh, and Francis continues to use quite a lot of naughty language.

Thomas Jopson was under the large mahogany desk in the Great Cabin, polishing Captain Crozier’s boots, when the messenger from Erebus arrived. By this point in the spring of 1847, a low sun had returned to the Arctic, and there was light enough streaming in through the double glazed stern windows of H.M.S. Terror to make it perfectly clear that “polishing the Captain’s boots” now held a meaning very different from that it had held mere months before. Captain Francis Crozier sat back in his chair, to all appearances studying maps and reading reports in an aloof manner, occasionally checking his watch. The casual observer would not see his steward, hidden beneath the desk on his knees, with his legs spread wide, rutting frantically against the Captain’s boot, panting and sweating, his sleek hair mussed and the silken knot at his throat askew, as he raced against the allotted time to bring himself off without either opening his trousers or using his hands at all. On this particular day, his hands were bound behind him, and he’d been forbidden to make a sound, so as he pitched his body forward in desperation for a bit more pressure, a bit more friction, he stifled his grunt of effort by catching the lapel of his jacket between his teeth. The Captain glanced at his watch and softly said,

“Half time,” with a gentle smile of satisfaction. The choked off groan from beneath the desk was permitted, this time.

This was really a most excellent game; no matter the outcome, there was no way for the handsome young man debasing himself on the deck to truly win. If he failed at his task of rubbing himself to a humiliating orgasm against his Captain’s boot, he would be hauled from under the desk and sent off to make himself presentable in the bed-cabin, with no chance of relief. If he _did_ manage to spend, it would be in his own drawers and trousers, which he would then be disallowed from changing for the rest of the day, no matter the  shame or discomfort. And either way would end with a good suck under the desk for the Captain, whatever the outcome for his boy. A most excellent game indeed, both agreed wholeheartedly.

This morning’s five minute game was just over halfway along when the expected messenger from H.M.S. Erebus tapped at the half open door of the Great Cabin, causing Captain Crozier to pull his comfortable chair as close to the desk as possible and straighten his posture considerably, leaving the unfortunate Jopson to slump silently against his leg, red-faced with agonised denial, mortification,  and the airless discomfort of the suddenly enclosed space .  All of which he was enjoying far too much by anyone’s account. 

“ Come in,” were just two simple words, but surely  Captain Francis Crozier must have had some superhuman ability to hold his voice steady and disinterested. Jopson heard the door rattle open on its track, and then heard so dden footsteps on his  nice, clean deck, as the messenger  entered.

In spite of the early May sunshine streaming through the windows, the messenger, young George Chambers, seemed to be half frozen through from the walk of scarcely more than a mile between the two ships.  Even his voice still  held a shiver as he relayed his  dispatch from Erebus. 

“Sir John sends his regards, Captain, Sir, and would like you to be informed that the lead parties are nearly loaded up and prepared to take their leave. He would be most pleased were you, and any other officers of your choosing, present to see them off, as it would do no end of good for the men’s morale to see you off of Terror again, Sir.”

Or, as Francis Crozier would translate from the formal language of Sir John Franklin,  _Get your arse out on the ice to see the lead parties off, or I’ll have your head on a pike and your bollocks on a platter._ He presented the lad with his best, broadest, false st smile, and said,

“Of course  I shall be there my boy, I shall need but a short time to prepare and gather my men. Until that time, though, you look to be half frozen, Mr. Chambers! Go on forward, have a seat by the stove, have Mr. Diggle find you something warming to drink, and let him know that I sent you!” The boy gave a nodding bow of gratitude, and a red cheeked smile.

“Thank you ever so much, Sir, that’s a kindness on a cold day.”

Once he had left the cabin, Crozier slid his chair back and reached under his desk in one deft movement, grasping Jopson by the front of his shirt and towing him toward the bed-cabin. 

“Quickly,” he hissed to his stumbling steward,  as he loosed the knots holding his hands behind his back, “we haven’t much time here!” He dragged the door closed behind them, then pinned the  dishevelled young man to the wall, pressing their bodies tightly together from from pelvis  to shoulders, not allowing even a stray breath before invading his mouth in a fierce kiss. Jopson opened his mouth and his thighs gratefully, swallowing his Captain’s tongue, and rolling his hips as if he were being fucked right there against the wall.  _Oh how he wished!_ Then one of the Captain’s hands pushed its way between them,  parting them at cock level, and he pulled away his mouth just enough to rasp out,

“Buttons, lad. Then I want your hands, on both of us. And  _quickly!_ ”

Unbuttoning two pair trousers was but a moment’s work to an experienced steward, and then Jopson had his own and his Captain’s pricks side by side in his hands, sliding against each other rhythmically in his grasp, as the  two men pushed and strained against each other and the cabin wall, swallowing every moan and gasp that the other made  in an attempt at silence, licking and biting at each other’s lips. Jopson could feel  when Crozier’s  thighs began to shake, when his breathing grew ragged and uneven , and how  his cock grew even fuller and harder in his hands and against his own, and the knowledge that his Captain was close to the edge drove him on  in turn , leaving his knees trembling and a hot tension  growing deep inside him, waiting until the moment when his Captain  thrust his entire body forward against him,  hissing,

“Ohhh Jeeesus Fuckin’ Chr riii ssst Almighty, boy!” hot and damp into his ear, 

and Thomas Jopson was very briefly glad he’d had the foresight to prepare a handkerchief, and then he was simply very, very glad indeed. 

Once they were both able to stand unaided again, Jopson’s duties as Captain Crozier’s steward came back to the forefront, as he tidied both their trousers, and carefully neatened the Captain’s clothing and hair until nobody would suspect him of walking straight away from hurried sexual impropriety against a cabin wall. As Jopson worked, Crozier poured and drank most of a quick glass of fortifying whisky, a much needed sustenance when attending one of Sir John Franklin’s grand speeches. He considered having Jopson also prepare a hip flask for him to carry along to Erebus, as an antidote to Franklin’s hearty good cheer, but decided against it, as he was certain that their abstinence-minded Expedition leader would certainly not approve. He would have to drink what he could now, within reason, and hope not to become overly sober before returning to Terror. He considered his senior officers for a moment, not counting those leaving this morning on the lead parties.

“Jopson, please inform Lieutenant Little that he has command until I’ve returned to Terror, and then inform Mr. Irving, Mr. Thomas, Dr. Peddie, and Mr. Blanky that they will be accompanying me to Erebus in no more than twenty minutes time.”

“Yes, sir.” After a brief glance in the mirror and efficient straightening of his own habitually tidy clothes and hair, Jopson was off on his messenger duty, leaving Francis Crozier to have a moment’s rest and another drink, before bundling into his well mended greatcoat and other warm outdoor gear, and setting off onto the ice.

The other men, as well as the boy from Erebus, were waiting for Captain Crozier by the forward hatchway, and he forced a begrudging smile onto his face, and an unfelt heartiness into his voice.

“Well, shall we be off then, men? No doubt Sir John’s got some words he’d like to say at us all before the lead parties set out, and God knows, we wouldn’t want to miss a single one!” With that, he led the way up the main ladderway, onto the frost-rimed deck and into the sub-zero cold of a day that could be counted as springtime by date only. Otherwise the air chilled the men from within with each breath, nipping at the lungs, though not quite of a temperature to be causing frostbite or worse so quickly as even a month ago. Still, a strange icy haze seemed to hang in the sky, and the low sun was jewelled in three bright sundogs, like diamonds around a lady’s throat. Their little procession of six was soon walking with heads tucked down into mufflers and collars, caps pulled low over reddening ears, and gloved and mittened hands thrust deep into pockets for what paltry extra warmth they might afford. As they walked, Blanky and Crozier, as long trusted friends, kept up a low conversation out of the earshot of the others.

“Tell me true, Thomas, both as my Ice Master, and as the honest bastard I know you to be when needed,” began Crozier, strolling them both a bit ahead of the rest of their party. “What chance do you truly think that any of these parties leaving today have of finding the slightest useful lead, let alone open water? Truthfully.” Thomas Blanky returned his Captain a shrewd look from beneath his cap and rather fierce brows.

“You tell me this, Francis, would you be asking me in the first place if you didn’t already think you knew what the answer might be?” Crozier heaved a deep, whisky scented sigh.

“Humour your Captain, Mr. Blanky. If you may either confirm or disprove whatever suspicions I already have regarding this venture.”

“May I speak plainly, Sir?” Crozier raised his eyebrows at this.

“Have you learned any other way of speaking, Thomas, since, oh, yesterday? We’re old friends. Say whatever it is that you have on your mind.” Blanky frowned, his weathered face uncharacteristically troubled.

“Well, Francis, I’d say this venture is sodding buggered, and so are we for the time being. Hell, you’ve spent enough time in polar waters yourself to know that sea ice don’t melt if the temperature doesn’t rise above zero, and we both know that it hasn’t yet this year. And this pack we’re in’s flowing south from the pole, so it’s not like to get any warmer on its own. Sir John bleeding boot-eating Franklin should’ve listened to you last year, and that’s God’s own truth. But he didn’t, and he’s fucked the lot of us, at least until either the weather changes, or we figure a way out of this ice. I’ve discussed this matter with Mr. Reid over on Erebus, and he secretly agrees, though he’ll never say so out loud, at least not when he’s sober. But you knew all this already, did you not?” Crozier tilted his head noncommittally.

“I’ve suspected as much for some time now. But you are the Ice Master, not I. I merely desired confirmation.”

“Consider yourself confirmed.”

They trudged the rest of the way to Erebus in a brooding silence.

That silence, at first eased only by the lament of the wind and the soft tread of their footsteps in the snow, was gradually broken by the busy and excited noise carrying over the crisp air as they rounded the last few pressure ridges and seracs that kept Erebus from her sister ship’s line of sight. Unlike her somnolent sister, the ice around Erebus resembled the air directly around a healthy beehive in midsummer, with men coming and going, shouting, laughing, loading the last necessities into the two sledge boats that would be setting off shortly, and saying their fare-you-wells, and best-of-lucks to friends who might be away from the relative safety and comfort of the ships for a week or more. Crozier caught sight of his own Second Lieutenant, George Hodgson, Foretop Captain Henry Peglar, and Assistant Surgeon Alexander Macdonald, preparing to head off with the parties travelling in search of leads in the ice, open water, or even fresh game; anything that might assist in their current situation. Feeling his duty as their Captain, he went to his men, and gave them what few words of well wishing that he was capable of. Times like this, he would sometimes ruefully wish that he was possessed of a few more, and finer. But then, of course, Sir John Franklin would begin to speak.

And speak he did, at great length, with what were doubtless grand flourishes of eloquence. Francis Crozier was standing a pace apart from the main body of proud and attentive officers, staring off into the middle distance and pondering just how much of a chance in hell they truly stood. A subtle cough from Blanky alerted him to the fact that Fitzjames, with his freshly curled hair and subtly curled lip, was watching him, so Francis turned his attention to the slightly ridiculous figure of Sir John, in his fur lined, epauletted coat, and cockaded hat, looking as puffed with pride as with too many good meat meals. His rich and plummy voice rang out over the ice, filling the men about to leave with his own misbegotten confidence, and those staying behind on the ship with borrowed pride and excitement.

“Scour the ice, with Providence as your sure-footed guide, and return safely with news that our long winter’s sojourn will soon lie behind us, and we can finally raise our sails again and force this passage!” He turned to a tall, handsome man dressed warmly in winter slops, in the front of the group preparing to leave. “Graham. I appreciate you taking the cylinders.”

 _Hmmm, so the old fool finally_ _decided to_ _leave behind some written record,_ thought Crozier. _His idea, I wonder, or Graham Gore’s? Is Fitzjames even capable of an independent idea?_

“It will be an honour, Sir, to lay our first footprints on King William Land and to deliver your words.”

_It will be an honour, Sir, to kiss your arse just a little bit more in front of all these assembled men._

“Be sure to come back with a story!”

“Joyfully, Sir!”

_And I will joyfully vomit, should this continue much longer._

Then Fitzjames, in his slightly less ostentatious greatcoat and gold banded cap, stepped forward, and clapped the grinning Lieutenant Gore on the shoulder, an equal grin spread across his  handsome face – a slightly older, slimmer version of the same honest, strong-jawed face as Graham Gore’s.

“I only wish I could join you in the outing!”

_You only wish you could collect another outlandishly heroic tale to bore people with_ _over_ _dinner._ This inner monologue was most rudely interrupted by Sir John. 

“Francis?”

“Sir?”

“Is there anything you would like to say?”

_God damn it all to hell, NO, you bloody fool, but I suppose I fucking well must now, you bastard._ Captain Francis Crozier cleared his throat,  and could think of absolutely nothing uplifting or helpful to bestow upon the departing men gathered before them. 

“Travel well.” His voice came out weak, and cracked in the cold. Sir John frowned as only a man with a knighthood could do toward one without. Then he let his own rich baritone carry forth again.

“Right. Good luck, men!” Fitzjames stepped forward then, doing his best as an assistant in absurd inspiration.

“Company, three cheers!” He walked out among them, leading the customary triple “Hip, hip, hoorah!”, and Crozier actually began to feel physically nauseated. Did these fools not see how futile this  waste of resources, energy, and men, was? Nevertheless, every man present, save himself and Thomas Blanky, cheered and whooped as the two lead parties set out due west and east, one toward the open ice, and the other toward King William Land, where they meant to find Ross’ cairn, leave the cylinder containing the message that all was well,  at least by the reckoning of Sir John Franklin, and perhaps even find game to hunt, or local Esquimaux to trade with. Though the Captain and Ice Master of HMS Terror did not wish them ill, neither were their hopes high as they set off back across the ice with their small party.

 

_________

Back on board Terror, Thomas Jopson had thrown on a warm coat, light muffler, and gloves before taking a lantern and descending to the Orlop Deck to hunt out the necessary supplies for laundry. Under normal circumstances, he rather enjoyed the orderly, methodical nature of laundry when compared with some of his chores - those times he was called on by Mr. Diggle as an extra pair of hands to peel potatoes, for instance, or cleaning up when Neptune, Captain Crozier’s alarmingly large Newfoundland dog, had not waited to be taken above deck but had instead left an alarmingly large mess on the deck of the Great Cabin. Not that Neptune was a bad sort at all, apart from all the cleaning he left behind him; he was a most friendly and magnanimous beast. If anything, Jopson was perhaps a bit jealous that the dog would be allowed to sleep at his master’s feet any night he chose, and nobody would bat an eye, whereas he’d hardly had that same privilege a handful of times. But shipboard life made everything difficult. Such as laundry, for instance. With the ship’s boilers banked and only the mess deck scarcely heated for a poor few hours a day, liquid water was a rare and precious resource, warm water even rarer. Even the men’s slop buckets froze solid overnight, which he supposed they should be thankful for, as frozen piss didn’t reek half as badly as the other sort. Still, scrubbing bedding and linens in insufficient water, and doing a hurried job of it before it froze into a soapy slush was less than pleasant to say the least, and left the skin of his hands a painfully cracked and reddened mess. Perhaps he should stop in sick bay about a salve for that...

Just as he reached the bottom step of the ladderway, a n odd noise took Jopson’s attention from the inconveniences of Arctic laundry. It seemed to be  half a scraping, and half a thick, liquid sound, from the direction of the cramped corner nook where the very supplies he needed would be stored. Raising his lantern higher, he stood otherwise motionless, hardly breathing. Surely nobody else could have been down here without a light. All the same, he knew the sounds that the ship made,  and the ice,  and the cats who were supposed to keep the rats down. He knew all the sounds of the rats, too. There! That scrape, slosh, then another scrape and a creak, as if some stealthy creature was climbing among the crates and barrels. Still holding the lantern high, he began to slowly and silently edge toward the source of the odd sound,  eyes wide and darting about his golden sphere of illumination. After a few metres, his foot nudged something solid and heavy, and he heard the sound repeated at his feet. Scrape, slosh. Crouching down with the lantern, he jumped straight back up when he saw what he’d come close to knocking over. There was an ordinary bucket, nearly full of what appeared, and smelled  at that , to be bright, slushy, half-frozen blood.

“What the fucking hell?” A hysterical bit of Jopson’s mind reflected that his vocabulary had perhaps suffered from too much time spent in conversation with Francis Crozier. Wait... Was that an echoing breath and creak he heard overhead? He lifted the lantern high again, and turned himself around and around, searching for the source of the sounds and the blood, his heart racing triple time. The shadows leapt and shivered from the swing of the lantern in his shaking hand, threatening to escalate the panic already swelling in his chest, and he forced himself to stop.

“Thomas Jopson,” he said aloud, breathing deeply and imagining that his voice had not just broken like a boy’s, “Get hold of yourself, man. There is nobody here. Be calm. You need to report this to the Captain.” Yes. When the Captain was back, he would know what to do, and Thomas mustn’t shame himself with needless fears in the dark. He would behave rationally, take a closer look to confirm what he thought he had seen, and then investigate further. He took a deep, steadying, breath, and knelt down to really see just what had so shocked him. 

At first glance, the bucket did indeed seem to be filled with a bloody slush, a long wooden rod extending perhaps a foot from the surface of the muck. Jopson took hold of this, and cautiously prodded at the bucket’s contents, stirring them about, then carefully lifting the rod a few inches. Something rose with it, snagged and wrapped round it, looking for all the world like a stiff and stained piece of fabric. He held the lantern closer, and studied his odd find. His vast experience with laundry told him that this seemed to be a torn piece of flannel, very likely once white, before a swath of it had been stained a deep crimson, and plunged into a bucket of water to soak. Peering back down at the surface of the gory liquid, Jopson could now make out other, similar pieces of fabric, and  the scummy,  rust stained residue of frozen soap around the edges of the surface. 

And just like that, the initial, horrifyingly blurred image he’d encountered clarified in his mind, and the mystery was solved. He had grown up with sisters, after all, and had long suspected that at least one among the crew was not the man he presented to the world. Thomas Jopson thought briefly of his sister Alice, who had taken to her bed, whimpering, for a few days each month with a painful “indisposition”. Why should masquerading as a man end a woman’s monthly courses? And how terribly strong she must be, to  suffer such pain, lose enough blood to account for that frightful bucket, and still carry on regular duties as a sailor in Her Majesty’s Navy without showing a trace of her torment! Thomas felt his heart swell with admiration for this unknown female, and had a sudden, mad urge to call to her:  _“Come out! I won’t harm you, I promise! I’ve got secrets too, I can protect you!”_

But no sooner had the thought passed through his mind than he knew it for the madness that it was. In truth, they had nothing in common. She was a woman alone, at the end of the world, surrounded by men who had not seen a woman in over two years. There was no safety for her here but secrecy. And he was a spoilt young petty officer whose security and weakness both rested on the fact that he was being regularly buggered by the Captain; his silence could be guaranteed, should he be fool enough to reveal himself to her as a friend, either through blackmail or worse still, exposure. She could most easily retain her disguise, and ruin both the Captain and himself. No, cold necessity would force them both to bear their secrets in solitude. In his most private of hearts, Thomas Jopson said a silent prayer for her safety. 

Then he took down the large washtub from its peg, high behind the ladder, piled the supplies he needed – washboard, soap, starch, bleaching powder for stains, and the heavy copper stick for blankets – inside it, took up the lantern’s handle between his teeth, and began to heave the unwieldy lot up to the mess deck, where there would be not quite sufficient water, but enough to make do. Half a minute after he’d disappeared up the ladderway, a slight figure dropped lightly from the beams almost directly above where Thomas Jopson had been standing no more than two minutes before.

“Fuck,” whispered the figure crouched beside the bucket, with a quiet sniffling noise. The back of a hand at its face might have been wiping  at a  nose running in the cold, or a single, fugitive tear. 

 

_________

By the time Captain Crozier and the other officers had returned from Erebus, it was nearing noon, Thomas Jopson had finished the first cold soak for the Captain’s laundry, and he was on his knees again, this time on the Mess Deck behind Mr. Diggle’s precious Frazer’s Patent Stove, a reliable source of both liquid water, and the heat to keep that water liquid while he worked, this time with his sleeves rolled up and sweat beading his forehead as he scrubbed his Captain’s linens. Meaning bedsheets, shirts, underthings, cuffs, collars, a particular handkerch i ef that had been unfortunately soiled this very morning, and other such intimate items.  He had once found a sort of excitement in th at very intimacy of this task; now it brought him a sense of more personal satisfaction. 

_Ah, yes, I remember why these drawers are slightly stained; a bit of extra scrubbing will do, though it would be_ _much_ _more fun were the_ _y_ _not empty… Oh, this handkerchief has gone altogether stiff! Surely nobody will notice if I use my mouth to soften it a bit… Hmmm, why must this bedsheet be washed again? It smells divine, like it must have been fucked on at least a half-dozen times,_ _such a sad waste_ _..._

Today, though, his pleasant thoughts and recollections were continually and nastily intruded upon by the sobering vision of a lonely, bloody bucket slowly freezing in the dark. He would find himself figuratively frozen by the image, lost in unaccustomed abstraction, staring sightless at the opaque and greyish soap-scummed surface of the wash, as his hands itched and wrinkled in the cooling water. What exactly was he to tell the Captain? And when, and how? Was he even completely certain of his interpretation? And if he was right, what did he expect the Captain to do with the information? Examine the trousers of every man on board to ensure that they were, in fact, men? And then, if the woman were to be found, what on earth could he expect to become of her? Would she be flogged? In front of the men, God forbid? Or locked up for her own protection? 

An even worse thought struck Jopson – what if the Captain were to offer her his own personal protection in exchange for her... favours? Thomas Jopson was not  quite immature or insecure enough to consider that Francis Crozier did not deeply enjoy their games and interludes together.  The enjoyment he took in giving pleasure, however perverse, to his steward, was most obvious. And if Thomas was simply a plaything, surely the Captain would not take the risk of keeping him close in his own bunk on nights when it was too cold, or they were too shagged out, or he simply seemed too  comfortable to  allow his lover  to  leave him. Because they  _were_ lovers, were they not? Surely Thomas would not be disposable should a woman become available, simply because of matters of social acceptability?  Or was there a matter of preference as well? Captain Francis Crozier certainly had no prior ill reputation regarding deviancy, and tales were passed  round about he and Ice Master Blanky  raising drunken hell in the brothels of every port of their youth .  And  then  there was the unspoken of, but still widely known matter of his failed courtship of Sir John Franklin’s niece. Perhaps Thomas was just the right kind of young man – tidy, pretty, slender, and compliant – that would serve when a woman was unavailable? Surely his Captain cared more for him than that? 

Perhaps the wisest course of action, for now at least, would be to hold his tongue, for the  continued safety of all involved. 

With that decision made, both the ship’s bell, and a curse from Mr. Diggle reminded Jopson to put the laundry aside for the moment, as it was noon, and time to wait at table.  The meal was a morose and less than comfortable affair, with Jopson  miserably  unable to allow himself his usual sense of security and ease in his Captain’s presence, and  Captain Crozier, if possible, even less talkative and more ill-humoured than usual, due, at least in part, to his earlier excursion and whatever might have passed between himself, Sir John, and Commander Fitzjames. He ate less of his Goldner’s lamb stew than pushed it about his plate, and drank more than he usually did by this hour. In spite of his own earlier misgivings, Jopson  resolved to make quick work of the rest of the laundry, and then see if he couldn’t find a way to distract the Captain from both his troubles, and  from drinking too excessively, afterwards. Though Crozier was an Irishman, and able to hold his drink better than anyone else Jopson had ever met, ( even if he would sorely hate to see him put Ice Master Blanky to a contest on that point!) Jopson worried betimes for just how much whisky the Captain had gone through that winter, and for the state of his health. Thomas Jopson knew better than anyone that there was still whisky aplenty in Captain Crozier’s personal stores, enough to keep any number of men respectably drunk for a very long time, but should he continue at this pace, and should they remain frozen in place for longer than expected, or encounter any further unforeseen troubles,  the repercussions of running out of hard liquor would be dire indeed.  All the more reason for him to work to maintain his Captain’s affections, and keep him  as happily distracted  as possible . 

First though, there was laundry to be finished, and dinner to be dealt with, before Jopson could reasonably expect to find time to pass with the Captain in any sort of confidentiality, and so he did his part in clearing the table, and steeled himself for an interminable afternoon and evening of frustratingly dull chores. At least the Captain had agreed some time ago to spare time and water by allowing Jopson to wash his own linensin the same tub. Previously, it had given him a near illicit thrill; now it provided more a sense of connection. Even their most personal articles of clothing would share the same wash water, and if they couldn’t be got completely clean under shipboard conditions, then the two of them would be wearing a bit of each other next to their very skin each day. Smiling at the thought, he entered his cabin to gather his bag of shirts and drawers in need of washing, and stopped dead at the sight of the items laid out on his bunk.

_Oh dear God. I suppose that the Captain must know about this after all…_

 

_______

When the Great Cabin had finally cleared out that night, it was fairly late, and Captain Crozier had drunk more than Jopson had hoped, but he still felt it needful, urgent indeed, to pass on the day’s shocking discoveries.

“Captain, Sir, may we talk? There’s at least one serious matter that I think...” From his seat, Francis Crozier grabbed Thomas Jopson around the waist, and pulled him down into his lap, and a sloppy, whisky-and-tobacco, kiss of the sort that he would usually be glad to melt into for as long as it might last. Indeed, he couldn’t help but to lean into the strong embrace, and hum his pleasure into the mouth covering his. If the Captain did indeed prefer female company, he certainly had no trouble making it known that he also enjoyed Jopson’s. Eventually, reluctantly, he pulled back, intent on making himself heard.

“This is serious, Sir, I believe we have a problem here...”

“Damn right we have a problem! We’re iced in fast, Sir John’s an idiot and Fitzjames is no better, those lead parties will find nothing, and you, my boy, keep talking serious nonsense when you could be putting your mouth to better use than that!”

Jopson pulled himself free and stood, his mouth open and cheeks aflame.

 “So you admit it, that a mouth and an arse are all I am to you. Perhaps it’s for the best then that there’s a woman on board to keep you happy, as she’d no doubt be better suited to the job than I.”

This time the Captain was completely taken aback.

“A woman aboard? How in hell could there be one hidden for so long? How the bleeding hell did you find out? Where the fuck is she then? And what in God’s bleeding name has any of that to do with you and I?”

“The bleeding’s exactly how I know, Sir. A soaking bucket of bloody rags, hidden below deck, just like my sisters would use for their monthlies. Nobody would’ve known, had I not been doing laundry today. And someone left me something… female, as a warning, I think. Either that, or they know about us. Could be a warning either way. But if there’s a girl here, I doubt that I matter much anyway.” Thomas hung his head miserably, and was surprised by the strong grip on his upper arms, shaking him until he looked back up to Captain Crozier, who had stood directly in front of him.

“So there’s a woman on board, living as a man. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen it, nor the fifth. Why the surprise? There’s women out there as strong as any man, and some have something to run from, or no place to go to, and prefer wearing trousers and learnin’ to piss standing, to whoring or scullery work. D’you know who she is?” Jopson shook his head.

“No, Sir.” Crozier nodded.

“Then she’s doing a decent job of it, and no need to trouble anyone over the fact. What I must know is what the fuck this has to do with me and you, and why you act like it’s the end of the bleeding world.” Jopson looked back down at the deck, shuffling his feet, once again overtaken and rendered near speechless by shame.

“I’m so sorry, Sir, I’d just assumed that you would have no further use for me if there were someone more, well, _female,_ available to serve your needs. I mean to say, you’ve no prior reputation for any sort of affairs with men or boys, and a full reputation of...” Crozier cut him off here, his eyes the grey of storm clouds above the ice pack.

 “I’ve a carefully constructed reputation of frequenting whorehouses, and of having courted one fine lady, who rejected me. A rejection even more thorough than my own rejection of my true nature for the best part of my life, Thomas. I’d hoped you’d have thought better of me than being the sort of man who would take unwanted advantage of any woman on my ship, simply because she was there. Was I wrong?” The steel in his eyes and voice pinned Jopson like a butterfly to a felt board.

“I had hoped the same, Sir, and I’d hoped that I had become more than a convenience to you,” at this Jopson’s voice trembled, “when you have become everything to me.” The ice in Francis Crozier’s eyes melted. He took Jopson’s chin in his hand, and tilted his head up, to look into his troubled blue eyes. They both ignored the single tear that escaped, and rolled down his pink cheek.

“Thomas Jopson, you needn’t ever doubt that I care for you. You are, I think, the one true lover I have ever had. If I am clumsy, I apologise, as it is all for lack of experience. I love you, my boy, as much as I’ve loved anyone. More.” Thomas thought his heart would burst free from his body and go soaring in absolute raptures.

“And I love you, Sir! I’ve loved you for so very long!” This declaration was sealed with a proper, full kiss. As a grinning Jopson pulled back, a blush crept up his glowing cheeks again. “Sir, I said earlier that something was left in my cabin today? As a warning, perhaps? May I show you?” The Captain frowned.

“Of course, but I don’t see what...” Jopson ducked down, took up a small canvas bag that he had stowed under the table earlier, and trotted toward the bed-cabin.

“Please allow me a moment, Sir. I can show you to best effect if you give me a moment of privacy.” With that he slid the rattling door shut behind him. Captain Crozier took a seat again bemusedly, wondering what this “warning” might be, and had the breath knocked from him a few moments later when the door rattled open again, and out stepped a completely different being.

A being with the handsome face, modest blush, and sleek, dark, cropped hair of Thomas Jopson, his broad shoulders and strong arms, but scant inches below his flat nipples, this creature’s ribs curved into the embrace of a set of white coutil stays, tapering to a waist so small that Francis would swear he could hold it in both his hands. Below, this creature’s hips flared out smoothly, over the pouf of a voluminous petticoat that stood out in all directions, hiding all but the silhouette of a pair of long, well built legs, and ending in a ruffle at the perfect mid-calf length of a ballerina’s scarcely decent costume. Indeed, this lovely creature with the face and upper form of his beloved Jopson moved and smiled with the coy grace of a ballerina. Though Frances had never much cared for the ballet previously, he decided that if all the dancers looked like this, he would be an instant devotee.

“Do you like this, Sir?” asked Thomas, spreading his skirt in his hands, his voice as breathless as Francis felt at the moment.

“I like it very much, my boy.” Francis reached out, and slowly, reverently ran his hands up and down the length of the corset, felt the tension of the tightly cinched waist, then smoothed his hands back up to pinch and pull at the pink nipples just above the hem. “Or is it my girl just now? Or are you perhaps both for me tonight?”

“Mmmmmm, I don’t rightly know, Sir.” Thomas rolled his head back in pleasure, his voice still thin and breathy from the unaccustomed tightlacing. “I’ll gladly be whichever you wish, or both. I should like to be both a boy and a girl at once, just for you.” A shiver ran over him, scantily dressed as he was in the cold cabin, and did not escape the Captain’s rapt attention.

“Well, girl, boy, or whatever you may be, you’ll soon freeze wearing so foolishly little around here. I’m going to have to warm you, and perhaps teach you a lesson too, about running around in your underthings in the Arctic like some silly Sylphide!” With that, Francis Crozier stood abruptly, lifting his surprised steward by the tiny waist. Thomas let out what air was left in his already compressed lungs in a high-pitched squeak, then gasped for breath when he found himself deposited in an unexpected, head-down position, laid across his Captain’s lap in the favoured chair beside the stove.

“It’s a bit warmer over here,” stated the familiar growl above him, as he felt the thin petticoat being lifted from his legs, “and as for warming your bottom, at the least...”

The first hard slap took him unawares before his Captain had even finished speaking, and it drove the meagre breath from Thomas Jopson’s lungs again. Then, just before he caught his breath from the shock, a glorious, stinging burn swept over his upturned arse, and his jaw dropped as he fought for as much air as his tight lacing would allow. He did not know that he was being watched with a sort of awe as he struggled, only that he could feel hands around his waist again, and rough, calloused fingers running down over his buttocks and upper thighs, and into the crevasse between them, before another hard hand came down, beginning the incredible cycle of sensation again. And again.

“Oh, Daddy!” Thomas gasped out after the third slap, not even entirely sure why, except that it had escaped the mouth of the girl that he was tonight, being spanked over the knee for some childish wrong. He certainly could not have seen the glee that spread over his tormentor’s face in hearing himself thus addressed, but he might have heard it in the dark chuckle that followed.

“That’s right, my girl, Daddy’s very upset with you tonight, running about in only your underthings like a little whore, and lacing your stays so scandalously tight. You need to learn a lesson, and for your own good!”

Slap! The hand came down again, and then again, driving a soft yelp from Thomas, who found the now constant, warming, pain in his bottom to be more arousing than actually painful, especially while being held steadily over the lap of his lover, and dressed in such a scant, yet restrictive costume. He was sure that the Captain could feel that he was growing hard against his thigh as he continued to spank, then teasingly caress, his raised and reddened buttocks. Indeed, after a particularly vicious smack, Thomas felt the punishing hand travel down and over his smooth, corseted hip, under the petticoat, and around to rest between his legs.

“And what do we have here? A prick in a petticoat? Are you secretly a boy? Or just a very naughty girl with a prick? Don’t lie to Daddy now.” At this, Thomas was sure that both his pairs of cheeks would burst into flame, and he gasped and stammered as the wicked hand began to gently stroke beneath his skirt.

“Ah! Ahhh! I… I… I’m not sure… Oh God, Daddy, I’m not sure!”

“Not sure! Then I’d best make sure for you, dearest!” laughed his Captain – no, Daddy – lover… Thomas’s head was spinning as he felt another hand greedily groping up under his skirt, and closing on his scrotum.

“Hmmm… Can’t say I’ve ever met a girl with bollocks before.” The rough voice was thoughtful, as the grasping hand gently rolled them, then gave a decidedly less gentle squeeze. “Are you sure you’re not a boy now, all dressed up wrong?”

“Ahhh! Ohh! You’d know better than I, Daddy! Ohhhhhh!”

It was truly a shame that positioned as he was, Thomas Jopson could see nothing but a somewhat wavering bit of the deck below him, as he was unable to see the grin spread across the face of the notoriously melancholy Captain Francis Crozier, and know that for the moment, at least, his plan was working perfectly. He might have suspected as much, though, when a pair of fingers pressed against his lower lip, and as he sucked them into his mouth without a thought, except to caress them well with his lips and tongue, he heard his lover laugh again.

“Well, boy or girl, you’re a wanton slut, that’s for damn sure! You suck a cock this eagerly, little slut?”

“Mmm-hmmm!” Thomas gamely attempted to continue sucking, answer the question, and nod at the same time, and failed to some degree at all of the above. Then the fingers vanished, and reappeared a moment later, under his skirt again, trailing a slick stripe back from his balls until they began to tenderly stroke and circle round his arsehole, in just the way that best made him relax his tight ring of muscle, and moan with longing.

“So what would this be then?” The gruff voice sounded incredulous. “You’re hiding a _quim_ under here, too? A prick, bollocks _and_ a cunt?” The fingers began a slow slide inward. “No wonder you don’t rightly know if you’re a boy or a girl, and you go about like a fuck-mad little whore! You’ve got the full set to keep busy here!” Now the fingers were sliding deeper, and curling toward that wonderous, sweet spot where…

“Oh Daddy! Ohhh! Will you fuck me? Please, will you fuck me, Daddy?” Thomas would possibly have been even more gratified by the smug pleasure on Crozier’s face than by the hand still stroking his prick and the fingers up his arse, had he been able to see it, but for the moment, he was utterly overcome.

“Come here then, love. Let’s sit you on Daddy’s cock for a good, hard ride.”

Thomas slid bonelessly from lap to deck, his chest heaving in deeper breaths now his weight was off his compressed ribs, and then the startlingly pretty boy looked up, through tousled black hair, his face flushed and his blue eyes glassy.

“Let me use my mouth, Daddy, to prepare you,” he breathed, already nuzzling at the crotch of his Daddy’s trousers. The Captain laid back in his seat, and said,

“Do a good job, darling girl, and make Daddy happy like a good boy.”

That was all the encouragement required. For the time being, Thomas was not entirely certain himself what was under that petticoat, only that it existed, as he (or she?) did in order to please Daddy. Buttons were swiftly undone, and she (or was it he?) sloppily swallowed Daddy’s already hard cock to the hilt, and would have happily stayed there all night. Too soon, though, Daddy’s hands were back, lifting, as he said,

“That’s plenty for a spit-slicking, now it’s time for Daddy to take his little slut properly.”

And then Thomas was pulled up into the chair, straddling Daddy’s lap and slowly lowering him(her?)-self onto Daddy’s prick, petticoat spread all around, and Daddy supporting her (him?) by the tiny waist. Thomas wasn’t sure whether quim or arse was being impaled, but who cared when the stretch was so exquisite, the angle so perfect, and whichever hole it was, was being stuffed so very full?

“There’s my precious whore,” murmured Daddy into Thomas’s ear once he was fully seated inside, and then he slowly began to thrust his hips upward, driving in even deeper. Thomas draped his arms over her Daddy’s shoulders, and pulled in tight to his chest, riding hard, moaning and nearly sobbing a litany of lust into his ear.

“Ohhh, Oh God, Daddy, please, fuck me Daddy, please, ohhh… love you Daddy… ohhh Daddy!”

Thomas came hard and suddenly, striping the inside of the ill-used petticoat, and nearly finishing Daddy Francis with his tight muscle spasms, but finish he did not, and instead he transferred the limp bundle of flesh, cotton, and whalebone clinging to him to the table top, where he lifted long, lithe legs to his shoulders, and stood back a moment. Jopson’s arse was bright red, with bruises already colouring deep blues and purples, and in the centre his hole still gaped wide and ready. Francis savoured the friction as he slid back home, and savoured sweet Jopson’s quiet whimper as well. He took a few long, deep, leisurely strokes, curiously eyeing the way that Thomas’s pretty, well-loved cock continued to twitch under its thin, feminine covering, then gave in to pure animal need, and pounded his way mercilessly to his own finish, amazed to see Thomas’s semi-soft prick give another little spurt in sympathy, and feel his arse contract again around his own pulsing cock as he emptied himself deep into the boy.

“Holy God Fuckin’ Christ, lad!” he panted, supporting his own weight by his hands on the tabletop, as Thomas’s legs slipped down into a graceless, indecent splay. “Did you just… I mean, was that just _twice_ for you?” Thomas raised himself slightly on his elbows, head spinning, and nodded weakly.

“I… I _think_ so… ‘s never happened like that before… Oh God, need air...”

Francis quickly but gently flipped the slack body of his lover onto his stomach, then began to wrestle with the lacings of his stays, which seemed as complicated and well tied as any bit of ship’s rigging. Finally, just as he was about to take a knife to the blasted things, the central knot gave, the laces began to speed out through their eyelets, and the back closure began to part. Thomas heaved in a great breath, and sat up halfway, fumbling and cursing at the front busk, until the entire thing fell away, leaving him in only a despoiled petticoat, and the cruel red stripes of whalebone and laces pressed into his white flesh. He simply sat, luxuriating in full lungfuls of air, while Frances ran a gentle hand over his sweat-damp back and heaving ribs for a quiet while. Then he scooped the still-dizzy boy up in his arms like a bride, and carried him into the bed cabin, covering his lips in a tender kiss.

 

Much later that night, both were in such a deeply content and exhausted sleep that neither heard the door of the Great Cabin open, or stealthy footsteps pad across the floor to the table, where a slim and silent figure gathered up the still-damp corset, folded it into a compact packet to be slipped under a jacket, and left as silently as it had arrived.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, Jopson's a bit of an idiot with that corset, which is why he's so breathless and light-headed, apart from a nice endorphin rush. (Yay spankies!) A well fitted corset (which his isn't) shouldn't restrict the upper lungs much, and usually isn't even tightened at the waist by more than two inches, on average. Someone used to corsetry can do most of their usual daily activities in a moderate corset. Personally, I've played flute and performed classical ballet in corsets - NOT things you could do with heavily restricted breathing! The extreme tight-lacing of Gone With The Wind was just that - an extreme practice, viewed in the 19thc. much the same way that eating disorders in order to fit a fashionable ideal are today. It was also often fetishised, as it still is. Tightlacing, like silly Jopson's, should be undertaken gradually, over a matter of hours, by increments, and in fact should ideally require an acclimitsation period of weeks or months. Extreme, fast, tightlacing can result in fun injuries like tears in the stomach lining, cracked ribs, and most painfully, I've heard, cracks in the cartilege holding the ribcage to the sternum. The least dangerous injury of these three specifics I've witnessed, but most painful. Go figure. Corsetry can be gorgeous, amazing fun for all genders, kids. Just stay safe when you lace. <3


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some PWP fanservice, to thank you lovely people for reading my smut, and to show a slightly different side of our boys' relationship. This takes place directly after the events of the last chapter. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is still underway, it's just hit a plot-hole, and needs a bit of work. But she's still afloat. In the meantime, have some completely gratuitious sex! :D

It wasn’t always games, ropes, delicious pain, and play-acting between them. Sometimes, more often even, as on this night, they were simply Francis and his Tommy, clandestine lovers perhaps, but lovers all the same. Perhaps moreso, in the dangerous circumstances of their relations.

Given the narrow space in even the Captain’s bunk, they slept curled as closely around each other as twins in the womb, face to face, and skin to skin. Tom’s dark head was tucked under Francis’s chin, pillowed on his shoulder, eyelashes and lips softly grazing his chest. Francis in turn, held Tommy tight against his body, as tightly as his arms could grasp in sleep, as if even while unconscious he was afraid to let go of the lovely, lithe young body pressed against his. Their legs entwined and entangled, gently shifting during the night, as though to enjoy each other’s touch and presence, whether their owners were aware of their pleasure or not. Though the temperature would drop to around freezing over the night, under their layers of blankets neither man would notice the cold in the least, not with the other’s body to warm, and to stay warm by.

Neither would rightfully be able to tell who was the first to begin to drift toward wakefulness and arousal, but given that these nights together were such sweet rarities, and that they were pressed together in such close quarters, it was virtually inevitable that they would wake during the night for more lovemaking. Not the rough and desperate fucking that they played at during their waking hours, but something softer that spoke with far more clarity for the depth of all they felt for each other than they could ever allow to slip past their tongues in words and wakefulness.

Francis would later think that it was Tommy’s tongue, and his lush, pretty lips, that had started it, when he’d felt silken hair slipping against his neck, and those warm, damp lips working their drowsy way along his clavicle, with that tongue – beloved and ever so skilled – dipping blindly into the hollow at the base of his throat. He’d hummed a quiet note of pleasure, and the sleepy mouth had followed the sound upward, gently licking and suckling at the skin of his neck, moving still upward to attach itself at the base of his jaw, as if his lover had turned vampire in the night, and was gently feeding in his sleep.

Tommy, though, would place the blame completely in Francis’s hands, which he’d vaguely awoken to feel running up and down his back, as he nuzzled in his sleep at his lover’s neck. Those large, blunt fingered hands, rough skinned and hard, but capable of such delicate touch, which so often had their wicked way with him, slid lower and lower, until they were cupping his severely bruised buttocks, bruising that they themselves were responsible for. And then they squeezed, not terribly hard, but enough that Tommy’s breath caught in his throat at the sudden pain blooming hot and beautiful in those strong, wonderful hands, and he blinked in the darkness, before taking Francis’s face in his own hands, and his lips in a thorough kiss. He knew and loved the gruff and taciturn Captain’s best kept secret – that one of his greatest joys and pleasures in the world was to kiss, and be well kissed in return. Of course he wasn’t actually thinking quite so coherently in the moment; his thoughts muddled more along the line of _“_ _Mmmm, arse hurts…_ _So good, so very good, must thank, must kiss, then kiss more...”_

And so he found Francis’s surprisingly soft lips with his own, and began to see to them with his lips and tongue, adding the occasional gentl  e nibble as punctuation. Francis hummed his appreciation again, and then hauled Tommy up along his body by the grip he already had on his sore, abused bottom, the better to align their mouths. Tommy moaned aloud at the delectable pain that  flared and blazed in his posterior, and Francis took the opportunity to catch his open mouth, and invade it most deeply with his tongue,  where it was welcomed with warm, wet, twining caresses, and soft sounds of approval. Then Tommy shifted his whole body, so he was laying almost directly atop Francis, slid a hand beneath his head, strands of hair slipping between his fingers, raised a bent leg to hip level, again, for the sake of alignment, and pressed down with both his mouth and his  pelvis at the same time, determined to both give and receive as much pleasure at once as he possibly could. Now his tongue filled Francis’s mouth as well, in a kiss  that drowned and devoured, and their naked bodies pressed flush together, chest to thighs, hardening, suddenly sensitised pricks slipping and catching against each other. But if Tommy was controlling the kiss, then Francis was driving him on by his grip on his black-and-blue arse, kneading it rhythmically in his hands and so controlling the rolling of his hips, the moans and whines sounding from his throat, even the movement of his tongue as he fucked Francis’s mouth with it.  At this moment they were both consumed with conflicting desires: that time should freeze like the sea outside, leaving them together like this for an eternity of  love and pleasure, or that they reach out from this particular perfection toward the inevitability of consummation. 

After what certainly seemed like a wonderful eternity, Tommy took the initiative, raising his head and drawing a deep, much needed breath.

“Need you, love,” he murmured, as he nuzzled in behind Francis’s ear again with lips and tongue and teeth, before beginning a slow, wet trail  down his neck and chest. “Need you in my mouth. Need to taste you.” 

But as he finished licking his way down his lover’s body and had just begun to lap at the leaking slit in the head of his cock, Francis grasped his shoulders and rasped,

“No, Tommy, turn around. Gimmie your prick too, damn it! God, I want you, beautiful boy!” Tom scrambled ungracefully to turn his long body around in the narrow bunk, until they were arranged on their sides in a favourite position, their heads tucked at the juncture of each other’s thighs to suckle at the treasures there. And they wasted no time, both licking, suckling, and swallowing each other’s pricks greedily, mirroring the other’s movements in running a hand between one’s legs to roll and fondle his bollocks, or reaching around to squeeze an arse, and pull in closer. But when he felt a pair of familiar and welcome wet fingers sliding between his cheeks and stroking his hole, Tommy decided to take a bit more initiative. Moaning and gasping with his own pleasure as the fingers breached his entry, Tom licked a wet stripe up the length of Francis’s cock, and thoroughly wetted one of his own fingers as well. Then, as he swallowed Francis’s prick deep into his throat again, and pushed himself blissfully onto the deliciously invading fingers, he reached around and began to delicately circle Francis’s as yet untouched (as far as he knew, at least) arsehole with his own slick finger. The reaction was definite, and most encouraging. 

Francis groaned nearly as loudly as the ice outside, around Tommy’s cock, sucking as though his life depended on it, and bucking his hips so madly that his own cock nearly escaped Tom’s mouth. Encouraged, Tommy latched on and sucked harder in turn, adding a bit of pressure with his finger, while the incredible suction, and the curl of those talented digits against his sweet spot drove him madly toward a blinding climax. He sucked in air through his nose, and tried desperately to hold off, just a bit longer, while working Francis’s rock hard, dripping prick with every muscle he had in his lips, tongue and throat, stroking his quickly tightening balls with one hand, and still stroking and prodding at that magical quivering hole. His hand shaking and control dissolving, Tommy’s finger involuntarily slipped past the taut ring of muscle that had been its barrier, and Francis gave a muffled yell, his entire body stiffening as pleasure overtook him completely. Swallowing back the sudden flood in his throat, Tom allowed himself to relax a bit, and resumed his own eager thrusts, back and forth between Francis’s mouth and fingers, and was soon spending just as enthusiastically. 

They lay there, exhausted and sweat-sheened for a short while, gently stroking each other’s hair, and cleaning each other with their tongues, before they began to notice the chill, and Tom turned round so they could snuggle down under the blankets again. Face to face, and skin to skin, trading gentle kisses and contented sighs, happily forced to hold each other close in the narrow bunk, as their eyes began to drop closed again.

“I love you, Sir,” mumbled Tom, against Francis’s lips, which quirked in a drowsy half-smile.

“There’s no Sir here tonight, my love,” he murmured, pulling Tom even closer.

“That’s fine. I still love you.”

“And I you.”

For once, Francis slept through until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't you just adore 19th c. words for sex acts?!?


End file.
